


The Mossflower

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF, Steak (2007)
Genre: Angst, Basically attempting to recreate Oizo in words, Chivers - Freeform, Coming of Age, Diary/Journal, Existential Angst, Existentialism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Let's leave it at that, M/M, Mindfuck, Nausea, Recreational Drug Use, Slash, Slice of Life, Stalking, Surreal, Surreal horror, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-06 09:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11597880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: The real world gets to you, Danny boy. It's verypeculiar, isn't it, seeing where the truth rots away.[Félix/Dan, Félix POV, set before and duringSteak. Inspired byA Clockwork Orange, down to argot.A story about socio-escapism, growing up, and copious amounts of milk. Chivers!]





	1. File: Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know anyone mentioned in this story personally, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> So this one's a right old doozy. I don't even know how to begin describing this.  
> This is the AO3 transfer of a two-month subplot over at [@akchotesuggestion](http://akchotesuggestion.tumblr.com). I've wanted to write a _Steak_ fanfic for a long time and this is _one_ crystallization of that desire. _The Mossflower_ runs in real time, and it follows the perspective of Félix (played irl by Sebastian Akchoté) during a summer vacation in which he muses about the gang he partakes in, tries to figure out the relationships around him, and eventually begins to follow the plot of the film. Having watched _Steak_ , therefore, is essential to understanding this fic, though I have tried my damnedest to paint a picture that's at least coherent even if you haven't watched it. It's a deeply surreal film that doesn't appear to make much sense at the start, but I think I've excavated a great deal out of it that I would like to share in this story. 
> 
> So sit back and relax; Félix has a tale to tell you all. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I did writing it.

**The Mossflower - File: Prologue  
**

\--------------------------------------

**[07/02/17, 4:13]**

We rode through town together in the backseat of his auto. Clattered we past patches of street dark and lamplight, Dannyboy and us his Chivers, us his Deborahs, us fickle lilyborn chellovecks, milkbottles in hand and alternating smots up the nebula as we waited for the sun to rise. Under caramel lighting his hair took on this _ominous_ tone, like sparkling way-of-the-water gleaming, real jolly. And none was more careful than I whenever this loafer needed facing down, as the dialogue beneath should demonstrate: 

> **F:** Deborah moy.
> 
> **D:** Da.
> 
> **F:** Pray tell the endgame of this fine outing.
> 
> **D:** Like it isn’t obvious? [ _Sideways glance_.] Nah, Félix. You’re cool. Sad to say it, but wigged it I have; the Chivettes are busy and I was going to see if I could rack up some fine sookas for the night, but it’s just too. Hell. _Cliché._ Consider us on patrol. We Chivers must take care of our territory. Gives it an hour, m’lads [ _Serge groans from the side._ ] and then to home sweet home we go.
> 
> **F:** Sure thing, Danny, I viddy horrorshow.

I tried, anyway. The answer? 

> **D:** No one says that anymore.

And like we scarleted on back home. So it goes.

\-----

 **Name: Félix [███████]**  
**Class: A-3**  
**Grade: Première**  
**Year: 2017**

My name is Félix and I am eighteen years old. I study the _bac L_ and live with my mother and am a proud Chivers, alongside my good friends Max, Serge, and Dan. Everyone else I love is dead.  
Journaling hasn’t been _en vogue_ for years, so I’m excited to see what I can make of this. This diary was started on the second of July. I only write like this because the sun’s out at the moment and I’m in class, but in approximately twenty minutes, school will be out for summer. Honestly, I can’t wait, which probably explains why I am writing _now_ and not later.

Fondest greetings to you all! I hope we’ll get along.

**\- F.**


	2. File: July 17 [01]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the first half of July 17, and accordingly, about a third of the story as it stands.  
> For Chivers slang as a whole, please consult the 'File: Glossary' chapter at the end. General notes about the chapter are below, though they're much shorter than they usually are for my fics.

**The Mossflower - File: July 17 [01]  
**

\--------------------------------------

**[07/03/17, 2:34]**

Chivers!

All-nighter at Max's. From his frooxer came a fine dejeuner for us all; took notes of course, I'm the next host, next time Mama is out. Chivers are as financially conscious as any informed chelloveck out there, we can't be ittying to milkbars every nebula. Rating overall 7.5/10. Sank minuta into the André I thought Max might not make it at all; vol-au-vents as dry and crumbled as baboochkas. Whatever shit with the art of pastry-making he has, here it needed sorting.

And he don't even make the baklava.  
Shaking tets, forever and ever and ever. Da.

Postesum I set down a sixpack on the table. I'm the milk bitch as far as my Deborahs are concerned. Without me this gang wouldn't run. We burnt chocolate and gimoffs and cancers as fuel as I made toasts, bottles going clink-clink-clink in a most craftily calculated order: Dan to indicate my deference and submission, Max as mercy for his role as host and feast-provider, and Serge so I could show that pouty loafer who's really in charge around here. The thing you have to ponymat is that respect is not conditional, but ritual is very, very, very conditional indeed.

Chivers both nourishes and sucks our freedom dry. Such is life.  
At least in those final moments we might dream of moloko.

 

**[07/03/17, 6:20]**

Wakey wakey, Félix!

I'm going into school for a little bit. Clearing out my locker.  
Lowerclassmen have classes for two more weeks, so school is still open, which makes it immensely convenient for me to pop my head in.  
If _you're_ a lowerclassman, though - uh, damn? I got nothing.

(The hell are you reading this for, then?  
Shouldn't you be getting ready for school?)

 

**[07/03/17, 8:10]**

Conversation while walking down the corridor: 

> **Some rando out for a bad time:** You. Boy! I want to talk to you.
> 
> **F:** Hi hi hi, Monsieur Latremouille. Goodbye, Monsieur Latremouille. Can't talk right now.
> 
> **L:** Don't walk away from me! The bloody cheek of you boys. [ _Sniffs._ ] What was your name again?
> 
> **F:** Félix, sir, but seriously-
> 
> **L:** ~~_Sebastian!_~~ That was your name.
> 
> **F:** I really-
> 
> **L:** What are you even doing in school? You're in the Première.
> 
> **F:** [ _Your Humble Narrator, sobbing inwardly._ ] You son of a bitch. A school is no place to chat your students up. Why don't you get back to your titrations and leave me the hell alone. [ _Smiling outwardly._ ] Sir, with all due respect.
> 
> **L:** Yes, ~~_Sebastian._~~
> 
> **F:** I. Um. [ _Gestures ahead._ ] I came to pick up my books from my locker. I’m going to be assigned a different one when I come back, right?
> 
> **L:** [ _Slowly._ ] Your books. Any reason you didn't remove them the day before?
> 
> **F:** Good sir. Good, _good_ sir. [ _Winks, forcing down the urge to toss one's cookies._ ] The burden of responsibility is a heavy one and we can only carry so many.
> 
> **L:** [ _Stares._ ]
> 
> **F:** I know. It's pathological. Contagious. I'm seeing someone for it.
> 
> **L:** Oh, you're funny. [ _Sounding distinctly unamused._ ] You're a _character_ , _~~Sebastian~~_ , you and your friends the whole pack of them. Shivers? [ _Ignores chivalrous attempts at correction._ ] Get your books, then, go on; I don't need any of you hanging around, being a bad influence. Get your books, boy, and get the _hell_ out of dodge. Am I clear?
> 
> **F:** [ _Undertones._ ] No more is there one who sayeth such a thing.
> 
> **L:** I beg your pardon?
> 
> **F:** It's what we call Chivers talk, sir. All the teens use it. I'll make myself scarce soon enough, you don't have to worry about a thing. [ _Walks away quickly._ ] Bye-to-bye, sir, you have yourself the most _wonderful_ day.

And the old bastards wonder why I'm an anarchist.

 

**[07/03/17, 8:15]**

What the hell kind of name is _Sebastian?_  
Shit name.

 

**[07/03/17, 09:07]**

Dannyboy's here. Don’t know why.  
Gonna talk to him for a bit while I find out.

 

**[07/03/17, 12:42]**

No, I did not literally take like four hours to clear out my locker. Get a grip.

Dan's just gone. He was thinking about recruiting.  
We Chivers do not need _more_ people, strictly speaking; he is right, however, in that we may just be too few for this world. Once four or five were more than enough to take on a state; look at what Ostrock did, one amateur band at a time. Not nowadays, not anymore. Dan's concerned with what happens to the gang once we're past the Terminale, but no one's met his standards for a long time.

Works for me. Just us will do fine. Live and die a Chivers.

After we had discussed this, we went to the cafeteria for lunch.  
We thought we might as well, we were in school after all. Burger and crinkly fries for him, chicken nuggets and hash browns for me. Hashishivers. Washed down with cookies and moloko. 'Cause if you don't start getting fucked up around twelve to two in the afternoon are you even a Chivers how do you look at yourself in the mirror every morning Christ to God. Also there’s a Chivers meet-up later and now I’m going to get some shut-eye before then, so get out of here. Cheers.

 

**[07/03/17, 16:31]**

Five to five is Chivers time. I'm sitting in my truck ready to go.  
Enough time to make an introduction for the cast members.

There are four of us Chivers. Dan, myself, Max, Serge. Dan's the one who began it, and I have a lot to say about him, but I'll save that for a later time. If I've been going too long without some good old Dannyboy discourse, remind me in a few. Right? Right. I'm the second-in-command, the figurative milk bitch and the literal creator of our argot. I'm the only one doing the _bac L_ so it was the logical choice to trust me with the language. Max is sturdy third, the best fighter in our circle - even when he _wasn't_ Max, he was carving out his own territory. If he wasn't a Chivers, he'd have posed us trouble as part of some other gang, I’ve a lot of respect for him. _Serge_ is the one I don’t have much respect for. Somehow he’s the only one Dan accepted into the group without a full-blown facelift and I have no idea _how_ he did that, but it makes me want to stab him with his own botox needles; sadly he’s an excellent partner in Russian class, and that keeps me contented most of the time.

That's just our division. There's a second. Our territories overlap, but they're bigger fans of the city and we prefer the forest. Some think they're our _side pieces_ and some think we're their _accessories_ , when the truth is anything but; we've an alliance, the Chivers and Chivettes. Odette and Lunette and Bernadette and Inès, just for variety's sake. The names are always the same but the people keep changing. All of them, however, have done the _bac S_ for as far as I know. I can't remember if it's a _requirement_ in the way our jackets are, but I think it must be. They've got their internal structure whipped into shape in ways we can only dream of; you thought _we_ were obsessed with the moloko, watch Lunette transform them into shakes we'd murder for. When the most recent Odette came along, she also offered us free use of a cabin her family owns in the woods, as a sign of our alliance - we stay weekends there during the spring and summer. We don't meet every day, but still, the current Bernadette and I are pretty tight. One day they're going to rule the world.

Eight altogether. Perfect symmetry. The most we’d have is ten.  
I'm open to a fifth if the Chivettes introduce another to theirs.

 

**[07/03/17, 19:23]**

Chivers!

How the hell did I miss what happens demain? Dannyboy reminded me; like, his stimming rings in moik orails still. We're still busy but I came out to the gruzoviki to make a point. A toast for you liberty lovers, take a sodding sip for your boy Félix and think on what etwally France did for you.  
Chivers are as historically conscious as any informed chelloveck out there. It shows in our plateaus - red jacket, blue jeans, white shirt or white moloko at the least. The absolute heights of fashion, yes yes, the colours of freedom.

 

**\-----**

 

**[07/04/17, 5:21]**

Home sweet home, Félix!

Prior to the night's events no one knew I was journaling. Kind of got shy about everyone knowing, so confided in Max. He was indifferent about it until I told him how much I was writing.

 _So that's why you've been going back and forth tonight,_ he said. _You being eager is a good thing, but that shit's like confession. You gotta save that up now and then if you don't want to burn out._  
Then I looked at all that I wrote so far and the bastard has a point; things I've spent longer writing/thinking about make better reading. So what I'll do is to update every other day, when I’ve had had plenty of stuff happen in my life as well as having had a good think about them all.

Unless nothing happens. Then uh, damn? Panic time.

Asked Dannyboy whether he liked evens or odds better.  
_Evens_ , he said, _guaranteed fun for all the family._ So I'll write on even days. And now that’s been sorted the kitchen table looks mighty comfy with its checked tablecloth and fruit bowl, so I’m done collapse for a bit. Goodnight all. Smoochy-smooch.

 

**[07/04/17, 19:27]**

Chivers!

Chivette territory. Imagine the scene.  
Zen minuta crossstadt, a nouveau milkbar. Don't know if it's worth mentioning, but around here milkbars are _the_ cutthroat business; in the _arrondissement_ below ours, steakmasons are. Most of them greasyborn basvys, they subscribe to medium well done and that's disgusting so we like never go. Anyway. So the etwally milkbar, the one we're actually regulars at, do a deal with us to take care of this problem. We shake frooxers over promises of a free mwah’s worth of moloko before ittying to the nouveau place to deal with it.

 _Best milktails in the district,_ the mesto boasts. _Finest laitiers._  
I have never heard of such misinformed decadence as my country only employs the best and brightest. Chivettes get the laitiers' attention at the bar while we sneak upstairs, past smooching couples and overheated lighting, and unleash what we kots and koshkas dragged in. "It'll be over soon, fear not," shouts Dannyboy, and then it's on.

Swedish fish! Millions and billions of reds and yellows and greens and oranges and oreos and apples and lemons and lingonberries and sleek and elongated and smooth and dusty outside and sticky and soft-mealy inside and bittersweet-creamy and sandwiched between cookies and bouncing tumbling skittering skidding their way across the bars and chairs and openglasses and wayward shrieks of the chellovecks around, crunch-crunch-tinking their way underneath like the nougats of countless tattoos and stilettos and upturned shattered milkbottles, soaking in the heavenly moloko like cereal gum and swamping the floor on their way down with the colours of crayons and snookerballs and childhood memories, every hundred dozen on top of another swarming against the current and tinkling out of the door and plopping into puddles a squall of medsweetness and colour and joy and delight. Swedish fish!

Job well doneth. Chivers must always be perfect, inside and out.  
And now I’m like sitting in traffic. Ranks were broke with permission and I'm _en route_ to a date with Bernadette; we've also a solo date on the sixth. She feeds me a wine gum on the way and above us the nebula stretches far ahead.

 

\-----

 

**[07/06/17, 11:21]**

Bonjour bonjour. Things are peaceful in Chivers territory.  
Your boy Félix is rolling around in bed. A bottle of prime-grade strawberry milk awaits him in the fridge. It's still a little while before lunch, so what the hell, let’s talk about Dannyboy for a bit. I _did_ promise and I got time to kill.

Dan's the oldest. Had he been born two weeks earlier he'd have qualified for the _Terminale_ this year. I have few memories of him before the Chivers ever became a thing because he came to us from elsewhere; all the way from Neuilly, Montmartre, I don't remember. The important thing is that I fell in love with him on his first day at the cafeteria when he decided that the presentation of the _fruit du jour_ was too disgraceful for him to even contemplate and tried to set himself on fire. We had an _understanding_ before we'd even been introduced to each other. It was meant to be.

It was peeled pomegranate, the seeds piled up in a sea of red.  
I know pomegranates are a lot of work. But in the pomegranate business, I’m sorry, but like, you've got to go big or go home. Give everyone a whole, intact, _unharmed_ pomegranate of their own to peel or soak or suck the juice out of during the lunch hour, or don't bother at all. When I see the seeds being sold separately in cute little bags or those plastic cartons it makes me deeply furious because I cannot, repeat, _cannot_ understand depriving one of that sacrificial experience. Dannyboy was just happy to go much further than a chap like me ever could in order to teach the school this lesson, and because of that, we do not have inferior pomegranates any more. They don't even peel the coconuts. The whole incident gave me an ideal to look up to, which was something no adult had ever done before that point. Is it any wonder, then, that I respect and cherish Dan’s presence very much?

Doesn't hurt that he came out unscathed from the fire. He hasn’t a single scar. Not that a scar with a good story behind it _doesn't_ add onto one's sex appeal, but the flames just went through his clothes and he wasn't even remotely worse for wear.  
He did clarify later on that self-immolation might have been crude in terms of methodology, and since then we Chivers have been very careful with our plans, whether with Swedish fish or gerrymandering. But whenever I look at him I’m reminded that not even flaming underwear could beat the coolness inside, and that isn’t something you _forget_ so easily about a person. Sue me. That’s our Dannyboy. Da.

 

**[07/06/17, 12:42]**

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this very important discourse on strawberry milk.

Seven lucky hours chilled in the deepest recesses of the frigidaire, beside the sticks of unsalted butter and the roasted pheasant carcass, the bottle remains untouched and pristine until the moment of truth. The fridge door opens; air rushes in; the surface of the glass mists over briefly, serenely, then fades away as Félix reaches in and extracts the strawberry milk from its resting place. Cookies baked and salad consumed, his lunch break is nearly over. As he gazes upon the label, condensation dripping against the back of his strong faithful hand, he knows that it is time.

This is how he claims his rightful reward.

It is a most curious and adaptable customer, the strawberry milk. The _klubnichnoe moloko_. The manna from heaven. It comes in many varieties - pastel pink, premixed, puréed, milkshake, homebrewed with fresh unsweetened pieces of strawberries sunk to the bottom - and comes in many containers of the cardboard and plastic and glassy kinds. There are _many_ strawberry milks, but this one is Félix's. It is as straightforward-smooth as it can get at first glance, mellow pink with a creamy froth on top; _my God_ , Félix whispers, kissing over the expiry date, _it even has a gold cap on it._ Alone and intact, chilled in all the comfort and peace one could possibly afford, the expiry date claims that it’d have a week's worth of life left yet.

But Félix cannot wait that long. It would be a shame to allow such deliciousness to waste away. Félix slowly proceeds to the table, where a chilled glass and a red straw are waiting, already prepared. When he applies the required pressure, _snap-snap-snap_ the cap goes, the requisite three times to break free of the golden band it's been sealed onto. Any less, or no resistance at all, and the moloko would have been dead to Félix; even as a satisfied smile drifts to his lips, he shudders at the possibility, such a dreadful thought it is.  
He can tilt his head back and drink at this point, but that would be _unbecoming_. He likes to draw out his pleasure. With the luxurious slowness of a second-shift sommelier he touches the bottle to the rim of the prepared glass - tilts it forwards - _yes, yes, my God, yes_ \- and lets his breath still beneath his throat as the liquid flows creamy-sweet into the vessel.

This is the moment Félix has lived for.  
And will _continue_ to live for, hopefully, until the end.

He closes his eyes and takes a sip. He rolls the mouthful against his tongue for a moment before swallowing; against the sunlit kitchen window you can see his adam's apple bob, followed by the faint flutter of his eyelashes as he _drags_ in a quick, pleased sigh. For over a minute he does nothing as he lets the aftertaste fade away, performing quality control to the last globule lingering against his tastebuds. Once he's confirmed what he wanted to know, however, he _grabs_ the nearby straw and outright stabs it into the surface of the liquid, lips cherry-reddened from the cold as they close around the tip and _suck_ with all their might. This is easily the most delicious moloko he's had in recent times. This is a fine compliment from one whose identity revolves entirely around mixing the most delicious moloko-plus, for the sake of his friends and brothers in the heights of fashion. Félix has a long way to go, and yet, he does not mind. There's none of the flat sweetness of _artifice_ to be found here - it is _savoury_ more than sweet at first taste, the tang of strawberries and cream only seeping through later, smooth and cotton-soft and _buttery_ without the greased aftertaste one might expect.

Félix will spare you the noises. They are impossible to put on paper.

But all good things must come to an end. Every last drop sucked and licked free from their respective vessels, he eventually slumps against the back of the chair, a cool hand pressed against his forehead. The bottle stands empty, the lettering on the label starting to blur. The glass too has been drained, the tip of the straw bitten ragged in Félix's lustful desperation. His head spins and his lips are slack with wonder, but in this one priceless second of _perfect_ satiation he comes to an oft-revisited realization: the world may be cruel and cold, but he will be all right, for he has - indeed - got milk.

 

**[07/06/17, 13:03]**

What's that? Where did I even get the strawberry milk?  
Call it a _tip._ I collected the first installment of our promised moloko yesterday from our regular milkbar, and the owner slipped it in as a bonus. The new one closed for refurbishment, or so they say.  
Did you know it's impossible to scrub out melted Swedish fish from non-varnished wood paneling?

 

**[07/06/17, 15:02]**

Six months since my facelift. Going in for one last checkup.  
Mainly for my chin. It's a pretty good chin. Give it a rub.

 

**[07/06/17, 18:22]**

Chivers!

Only barely though, no meet-up tonight; we're laying low, or on solo dates. Don't know who's with who, or if the other lubriks are with anyone at all, though if it emerges that Serge got rejected by Inès for the chetiryth time that would please me horrorshow. Inès has changed most often since the Chivettes were established and he still can't date with any petit-sas.

But this is about Bernadette. Imagine the scene.  
We enter a burger joint du coin. For myself: cheeseburger, matchstick fries, vanilla moloshake with marbled vanilla and strawberry ice cream. For Bernadette: caramel moloshake with sprinkles and chocolate ice cream, alongside a hot dog with gruyere and caramelized luks just to say sod off to the establishment. The mesto is popular, so we queue up and zdat like.  
Sank steps away from the front we are when a loafer wearing real ragged camo with a Totenkopf cuts in line. I'm all for the freedom of expression but for obvious reasons I am _immediately_ offended: 

> **F:** Move. With all due respect, soupsay this mesto you sodding rat, thou, I'm going to shank you filthy drooling bastard Jesus just get the hell out of here. Stop being here and move away, if not to the back, then out of the goddamn porte. Seventy years ago was when this etape a fini you are not _edgy_ you are not _cool_ you are merely an _etwally vonny bottle of chip-oil_ get away from here you idiot.
> 
> **The bastard:** Jaja, and I pray tell; put thine polly where thine rot is. [ _Spits on floor._ ] Gloopy badmuffs, you Chivers are a joke.
> 
> **F:** Uh. Um. Goddamn. Uhhh.

From the perspective of an argot creator, I am mildly surprised. From the perspective of a Chivers I am utterly horrified. This lingo wasn't meant to gain _this_ much traction; I will have to amend it, otherwise what like even is the point of having an argot, regardless of if it's our enemies ponymatting us or not.  
This is where Bernadette looks up from her phone. This is where the merits of plain language shine through. This is why Bernadette is a goddess. Looking the chelloveck directly in the owchee she smiles and calmly says: 

> **B:** Fuck off you fascist conniving end piece of sourdough.

Then they drag the nase outdoors for spitting, but like...  
... I'm in _love_...

 

**[07/06/17, 22:49]**

My chin's fine, by the way.  
Not only did Bernadette give it a rub, she also gave it a kiss.  
It was good. And now I can see her and a bunch of other lubriks emerging from the vaysay so I'm put this journal down.

Chivers!

 

\-----

 

**[07/08/17, 0:04]**

I'd say Chivers but right now is not the time.  
Bleue did not go as we hoped. Locked in my truck; pardon I’m looking out for the others right now

 

**[07/08/17, 0:16]**

We accidentally lost the cube, that was three hours ago  
shouldn't have come this deep into the forest.

 

**[07/08/17, 0:31]**

Found penlight. Rain stopped. I'll try again.

Dannyboy in the distance. Perfect hair windmussed; not so perfect  
He is clearly so _annoyed_ about it and it makes me feel bad

 

**[07/08/17, 0:46]**

none of us _dropped_ it we just didn't catch it in time that's all  
we can get a new one it doesn't have to be _that_ exact cube

surely

**_surely????_ **

 

**[07/08/17, 1:08]**

the good news is that I found a fifty-Euro note tangled in a bush.  
more than enough for a new cube, or I'll spend it on milkshakes and stationery or something. I'm sure going to _need_ to after being out in this weather

the bad news is that my solar plexus is hurting terribly again.  
I think everyone is but how should I know, I can't see a thing

 

**[07/08/17, 1:15]**

i feel sick and for once it is not the moloko

 

**[07/08/17, 1:49]**

i have been a good chivers. i have been a good chivers. i solved the mysteries and took the hits. i have drunk moloko and took the hits and i have been a good chivers. maybe i deserve to go home? i've taken my fair share of beatings in my life (stitches / casts / batterings / close calls) but my body isn't going to ibuprofen and bandage itself if this keeps on. i think we are on five hours now. it is very cold. no it's not. that's not what bothers me. i am hankering to return to my mother and my neighbours i think that's the problem. i do not always see them and do not always _like_ them but they are something familiar in my life and i like having a measure of control in my life knowing what lies ahead of me being able to talk to people and laugh with them and occasionally have them under my thumb i can't control _this_ why can't i find the cube this forest is not _that_ big for god's sake we're still in paris perimeters why _can't_ i fix this problem _why can't i make dannyboy happy_. i'd kind of like to ask why we're all suffering for the sake of an accident but like i realize that that's basically the human condition so i'm not really sure if i have a case here to make in the first place. i'm confusing myself. i didn't lose the cube though i was the batterer i was waiting for my chance to score _it was taken from me_ and yet if i do not find the cube before daybreak i will be executed in the basement for all i can tell i need to be gone from this place i need to _reset_ let me go _home_ i have been a good chivers i have deserved it let me let me _let me let me **let me**_

 

**[07/08/17, 2:22]**

 

 

_I_

                                can

                    _he_  
                          _ar_

              **_s o_  
                       u  
                         n d  
                             s**

 

**[07/08/17, 5:00]**

Bleue is over. Retreating. Too spooky for any of us.  
Pray, uh. _Don't._

~~... Don't tell.~~

 

**[07/08/17, 17:32]**

Actually _not_ Chivers today.  
Text from Dan; today's meeting called off, which is for the best.  
I've been telling him that we needed proper grounds to play Bleue in for ages. I think getting the Chivers stuck in the woods finally got him seeing our point of view, and with luck, we might finally be able to hire out someplace.

Sleep has done me wonders. Come lunch Mama brought me soup full of butter and kartoshka.  
In this cruel nation where we have been conditioned to be afraid of butter, mother is a beacon of hope, the one thread of sanity, a rare example of anti-trendsetting being _entirely_ justified. Vegetable spread and margarine are not even close sooka.

I think I'll call Bernadette.

 

**[07/08/17, 19:33]**

...

All right well. Yes. About Bleue. Can't hide from it forever.  
I guess I need to explain what the hell happened. Few months from now maybe I won't even remember that it occurred at all; I need a record.

The important thing you need to understand, first of all, is that Chivers is a form of _communal worship._ That sounds ominous, but I reckon the theory of it isn't all that different to how _anyone_ gets into _anything_. Consider this: here is a small group of people who love the same thing you do. They see the same problems in the world as you do. They like to dress as you do, eat the same food as you do, and are willing to be so close to you that in-jokes and code-switching and an internal hierarchy becomes apparent. And, like: have you _seen_ the world around us nowadays? Any corner of sanity you can get, you should hold onto.

So you need identity.

And to maintain that identity as your own, you need discipline.  
Hence the beauty that is Bleue.

Let Félix wax lyrical on it for a moment.

Bleue is chaos.  
Bleue is life.  
Bleue is a _collaborative effort._  
Bleue is where you solve mysteries to help _the batterer_ score.  
This he does through giving you a good spank with the bat, provided that you were correct. If you get it wrong, nobody gets anything and you are a disgrace. It is a great honour to receive the hit; do not flinch from it. There will be days when life is cold and empty like your mother's larder, and there will be days where you are driven to tears with frustration, but with Bleue _today will not be that day_. The hit is the reminder that you have survived this and that you will survive worse, Deborah moy, we will always be by your side. We have always been at war with Eurasia. We can do that much for you.

So you see. We were two rounds into Bleue last night when the cube rolled off and disappeared into the bushes.  
So we turned to each other, as is the logical conclusion, and took turns to give each other a smack. Three altogether for all of us, me first, Dannyboy last.  
Won't deny arousal at seeing Serge double over in agony. He got me back; still worth it. One from Dannyboy felt like a kiss. I only hope mine felt the same.

It's an _intoxicating_ experience, Bleue, as long as you don't get lost in forests after. All very _consensual_. All very _loving._ It absolutely kicks some part of your lizard brain _insanely_ hard and is very hard to articulate in words.  
I would take a selfie to demonstrate the look on my face right now, but Bernadette is coming any minute and I really can't be seen in a state of manic self-pleasure at the moment; that'd be unfair on her. Just take it from me that sometimes, you have to take a hit to the solar plexus for the motherland. _C'est la vie._

 

**[07/08/17, 19:44]**

Dinnertime. Roasted eggs and chicken salad as main, chocolate milk as a gift. I am cuddling with Bernadette. Her hair is soft and she has a fetching scarf around her neck, bloodstained, the way she likes it.  
Bernadette doesn't really get Bleue. Not surprising; there is no Bleue in the Chivettes, only Frais. No cricket bats or cubes, just a nice three-round session of sitting down, drinking milk, and straight up debating each other to death. Everyone is very soft-spoken and polite as they roast you across several circles of hell. I admire the non-violence, but apparently there are often tears, and tears you can't _blink back_ or _excuse_ as a pain reflex I'm not a fan of. The last time I cried it gave me a hellish migraine and smudged eyeshadow all over my Jasmine silk pillows so I'm not big on crying. Mea culpa

 

\-----

 

**[07/09/17, 18:24]**

Chivers!  
I know I’m not meant to be updating today but uh, the thing is

**_Dannyboy visited with no warning at all_ **

Nearly diswit hours and I can’t fathom what happened last nebula. Bernadette and I are still like reeling; she heard first the clack clack on okno moyo, and when I actually opened it a petit-pietro flew right in and she creeched loud enough to wake the entire mason. Imagine us running downways the escaliers in underwear, Mama peering after us; _hullo_ , cries a baboochka nebenporte, _what do we have here?_ and I don't even have the mind to tell her nobody says that anymore. Dannnyboy’s out by the porch, staring down broodingly at an empty milkbottle; I posthaste turn to the kitchen to fetch him fresh moloko, but the moment he sees me he tells me come hither. 

> **D:** Bonjour bitch.
> 
> **F:** Uh.
> 
> **B:** Um.
> 
> **D:**
> 
> **F:**
> 
> **B:**
> 
> **D:** Deborah moy.
> 
> **F:** Da.
> 
> **D:** Desolations, Félix, desolations for what happened last nebula. [ _Nods at Bernadette._ ] Good to see you, Bernadette, if you could soupsay us a little. My lucky boy needs talking to.
> 
> **B:** [ _Crossed arms_.] Félix brought me up to speed. Good on you for finding the cube, but I can't help but feel that Bleue just isn’t a good idea.
> 
> **D:** [ _Rubs back of head._ ] I vois what you convey, but. Hrm. Let's just say you are totally rightways, but even though you are, the friendship is more important than being rightways.

Scoffs milady at them mots but she leaves as asked, taking Mama back up the escaliers with their slippers swish-swish-swishing. _Someone’s_ not getting their half of the blankets tonight, I can telleth.  
But while I absolutely hate being caught in the middle, like, I totally get that happens. What I _don’t_ get is the part where Dannyboy reaches out and starts _fondling_ my stomach real jolly. He gives me a like _tender_ look for a solid minuta before he hands over a box of rockskins and starts like in serious mode: 

> **D:** Open it when you’re back indoors. I did as you asked - near the forest there’s a school cricket ground, I’ve spoken to some people and they’ll let us host Bleue sessions there. There will be no repeat of last night’s events. [ _Nods firmly, then relaxes._ ] I came all the way out here for your sake, Félix, because I needed you to know that you’re a good boy. A fine lad and a fine Chivers. Smotting thine mots giveth my only pleasure outside of all that we do as a group, yes it does. Keep at it. [ _Winks and clicks tongue._ ] Nighty-night.

Félix did not get in a word in edgewise, sad to say. Reminder that underwear was the extent of my plateaus throughout all of this.  
Bernadette turned on the bedside lamp as we opened the rockskins. Much to our surprise, the box was a care package: boxes of ibuprofen, fudge cookie dough you just add vody to (Bernadette seemed less miffed after seeing this), his-and-hers handwarmers, and a pack of vanilla-coated semechki.

... Looking back at it, _what_ froze me up the most with Dannyboy I do not know. There’s the fact that I am writing this, permitting him to throw my schedule out of whack. Our favourite igra next to Bleue is touching each other and like that’s nothing new, but that’s one thing and touching me so fondly while I’m almost nagoy is yet another. Then the fact that Bernadette being here prevented us from saying much to each other. To say the least your boy is very mixy and confused. Curiouser and curiouser.

 

\-----

 

**[07/10/17, 16:12]**

So like, Félix went out for a walk today.

Inspired by a leaflet pushed through the mail slot this morning. New recycling and garbage bin regulations, we're getting a new receptacle for the latter at some point next week. Even though I'm frequently out and about, I'm not home often and don't host my fellow Chivers as often as I would like, so I thought I might give myself a reminder.

I live here, after all. Compared to the nights filled with luxurious pain and manly swaggers and the sweet, sweet moloko, my neighbourhood is very ordinary. Nothing unusual ever happens here, not unless my fellow Chivers and Chivettes come knocking.

I circled the entire block and went to the shops. The day was very clear. Passed by a black cat lying in a loaf; I gave it a tickle, and when it rolled over onto my hand I felt a sense of proper attunedness to the world.  
Caught wind of something happening at school, too. Lowerclassmen finish their classes in a few, but summer language sessions are taking place. I texted everyone else about it, and we might be discussing that tonight.  
Picked up some spinach and moloko for Mama. Sadly it had to be the _inferior_ cardboard carton sort, just because it holds more and she was using it to bake, but like if you ever tasted the _vasina torta_ she makes you’d be inclined to forgive that, too.  
Neighbourhood ladies gossiping in the aisle. They gave me dirty looks as I passed by and I put my middle finger up at them. They don’t think much of the Chivers because they are old and steeped in existential ennui.  
Someone who _wasn’t_ steeped likewise was the street musician outside who complimented me on my jacket. He knew the Chivers through Max, apparently they go to the same takeaway often; he related this tale, his admiration for the Chivers, compliments on my character, and a homeburned CD containing his own Chivers anthem in the space of less than five minutes in such a way that I felt warmhearted all the way back home. Cutting to the chase is an important bard skill and should not be underestimated.

(Someone _else_ could do with learning it?  
Why. _I don’t know what you mean_.)

 

**[07/10/17, 16:51]**

Guess who’s _still_ listening to the CD.  
It might sound bootleggy but it’s such a _sincere_ piece of musical genius that it brings a tear to my eye. I’m not sure if I have felt this way in a while, or even at all. I finally feel a part of something meaningful in this world. The words of the Chivers anthem are worth recording here, if not _adopting_ in some sense for our personal motto. Here goes: 

> _No-no-no, no-no-no-no, I’m_  
>  _looking for a band today,_  
>  _I see the Chivers anyway_  
>  _through my eyes._
> 
> _Oh, oh, oh, I…_  
>  _I’m alone in life to say:_  
>  _I love the Chivers anyway,_  
>  _‘cause Chivers look divine._
> 
> _Look away,_  
>  _they try to find the Milky Way,_  
>  _they love to drink it every day…_
> 
> _No-no-no, no-no-no-no, you_  
>  _you and I, it’s like you said:_  
>  _I’m not a Chivers anyway,_  
>  _you look fine._
> 
> _Oh, oh, oh, I…_  
>  _I’m alone in life to say:_  
>  _I love the Chivers anyway,_  
>  _'cause Chivers look divine._
> 
> _Look away,_  
>  _they try to find the Milky Way…_
> 
> _I’m, I’m alone in life to say:_  
>  _I’m not a Chivers anyway_  
>  _in your eyes._
> 
> _Oh, oh, oh, I’m_  
>  _looking for a band today,_  
>  _I see the Chivers anyway._  
>  _I’ll be a Chivers guy some day_  
>  _in my mind…_

I’ll ask Dan if we can make the musician a honorary member.  
He was older than any of us nadsats which disqualifies him for a full ride, but we've recognized honorary members before; we might be able to work something out, maybe even get the man a jacket.  
What’s a gang without a bard to accompany it?

 

**[07/10/17, 19:22]**

Chivers!

Worrying development: meet-up with the Chivettes tonight, which in itself is not concerning, but Bernadette is not present.  
Not answering any calls or texts from anyone. Wondered if a Frais session went bad but there hasn't been one for several jours. Last I saw her we baked and shared the fudge cookie mix Dannyboy gave me before she had to itty homeways so I've not a clue where she is. It's couples' moloshake night and it weighs on me heavy, her absence, I miss her smecking and stimming and all.

Odette is with Dan. Lunette and Inès are together.  
Max has a coupon for medovik and molochai so he’s having that.  
Unfortunately as every chelloveck above and below my exact socioeconomic status is debil and the only way I can take advantage of the nebula is to para up with Serge, I'm going to have to pass. Irony is only Serge has any wisdom to give regarding the Bernadette situation, which was to cool off and like zdat, but then in his usual fashion of destroying any credit he builds with me almost immediately this happened: 

> **F:** What art thou even supposed to do at a milkbar if thou canst even drink?
> 
> **S:** Appreciate thine Deborahs for like several hours and be happy for them?

Sooka blyad.

 

\-----

 

**[07/12/17, 6:00]**

Chère Maman,

Stepping homewards after a long night of partying and touchy-feeling the first thing I see in the kitchen is your note. _Home early today,_ you have written. I read it twice over and pin it up on the fridge with the nearest magnet, stepping back to stare at it for a good long moment, fancying that I can spare this small gesture for you. This pretense of _interaction_. The reminder we are mother and son, divided by generation and doorways and the fact I am _scandalously_ cool, just like this refrigerator I will now open in order to get away from your tight sad handwriting.

Cool air drifts out. I close my eyes in exhaustion. Under a glass cover lies a slice of the _vasina torta_ you made for us two days ago, still moist, the whipped cream topping fluffy and intact.  
I have always thought that the saddest food in the world was bad cake, _majka moja_. You start eating it expecting a guilty pleasure. That you will _enjoy_ this experience, though the guilt will come later, simply as a matter of course. But the future will refuse to change, _because the cake is bad_. From the first bite to the bitter last you are stuck with something that isn't good for you and offends every bit of your senses, ridding you of the opportunity to eat something else that is a reasonable combination or antithesis (as you choose) of healthy and satisfying. It will not even be _cathartic_ because the moment the last crumb has been licked clean, you will stare down at your fingers - covered now with butter and icing, sinstained appendages they are - and wonder if you had been obliged to finish it at all, when you hated it so much.

It is a terrible experience, Mama. But none of this applies to you. You will never hear this tirade from me because your cakes? They are and always have been _marvelous._  
Félix will sit down. Félix will say grace. Félix will eat, wash the plate, nod in a gesture of satisfaction you are not here to see, and move on with his life. There will be no compliments on the cake because you've heard them all, and there will be no complaints after you carry your exhausted self home because you have done nothing to warrant one. I will have you know that I have spent the past eighteen years on this terrible earth avoiding any sort of uncontrolled emotion in regards to you, because you do not deserve to be subjected to my ranting and raving-mad nadsat moods.

I am numb to your labours, of love or otherwise.  
I am numb to the silent sobs in the kitchen.  
I am numb to the depression I have put you into.

Today will not be the day you make me feel.

 

**[07/12/17, 6:27]**

All good Chivers love their Mamas, I have to be clear.  
Just that not all good mothers love the Chivers.  
I think mine is... _concerned._

 

**[07/12/17, 12:37]**

Bernadette is still not answering my calls. This was true as of the tenth of July, and yesterday also.  
I am attempting to write to her. Letters have always been _en vogue_ , unlike journaling. I am endlessly frustrated that I am so bad at it. Something about the fact that letters are _meant_ to be gawked at.  
So much notepaper, first in tiny confetti, then in balled-up wads in the trash. I have stripped off all of my clothes. Prevents any potential ink splashes.

 

 **[07/12/17, 13:45]**  
  
"Feeling a bit cold there, boy?" Smirks the old lady next door.  
Spasibo uzhasnaya baboochka. Thankfully I was underneath a blanket, but honestly. If you don't want to kill your neighbours now and then do you even count as the run-of-the-mill average citizen. Don’t know. Félix adores this area in general and part of him still thinks love should be able to overcome this obstacle

 

 **[07/12/17, 16:35]**  
  
Checklist of upcoming events:  
  
Bleue, Jul 12th from 17:00, at the new location | **Check**  
A fine Chivers jacket for the fine Chivers bard | **Check**  
Summer language sessions | **???** (Bernadette yet to confirm)  
Fresh milk fresh via the milk bitch | **Check** (Félix is your boy)  
Next dinner host |  **Check** (Félix remains your boy)  
Snooker tournament | **Check** (Félix is always your boy)  
Murder of rival gang | **???** (Nobody wants to pay for dry cleaning)  
Boot polishing session | **Check**  
Magazine subscription at Odette’s forest cabin | **Check** (Binned with great prejudice)  
  
All discussed on the eleventh!  
Here's hoping for more fruitful conversation tonight.

 

 **[07/12/17, 19:21]**  
  
_Damn it!_ Damn it all to hell! That dumb _idiot_ , that _rat-bastard_ , that psalm-singing... goshdarn... so... unbelievably _lame_ son of a gun.  
  
_Not_ Chivers. I was all ready to play some Bleue and take some beatings the moment I finished the checklist. Jeans so tight and firmly starched it pinched the thighs _ever_ so lovingly, the trusty button-up that never let me down, the jacket, the standard bottle of moloko to get me through the night. Even spiced it up with a bit of nutmeg, not that _that's_ what they call it nowadays.  
  
And what do I get for my efforts? - No Chivers today, because Dan's out meeting with a _straggler._  
And who has to tell me this? - _Serge,_ out of all the bastards out in this cold and ruddy world. I just about _threw_ my phone across the room hearing his _smug_ voice on the line, hammering it in that Dannyboy didn't think it important to tell me this himself, oh no; I don't even know what this straggler _looks_ like or where they might have come from. I really hope this is just a dealer meeting, or at best a honorary membership, but the fact that Dan was _recruiting_ just over a week ago makes me nervous.  
  
I better not be the one who knew last, for sure.  
  
Thankfully all of this took place on the phone, so Serge did not see my reaction and any dishonesty he might have been a part of I can verify later; but the thought that he might have read something in my tone incenses me terribly.  
Maybe another dash of bitter almonds in his moloko the next time we meet will do the trick. Maybe I can... I can steal his notebook for Russian class, or something. Anything to get him back. And still no word from Bernadette! To think I'd put down the pen hours ago, determined that nothing I can express in the written word was a replacement for the _spoken._  
  
Guess I was right. Would I be _this_ mad if I'd been told via text?  
I mean, from Dan or Serge or whoever? Today Félix is correct, and yet it seems that today he also eats crow. It tastes hot and bitter, just like the ashes of your burnt-down childhood home; I only lament that I can't shove the taste down _his_ throat.

 

 **[07/12/17, 22:38]**  
  
More about Serge before bed.  
  
As there was no meeting today Félix has had plenty of time to think about earlier. Strikes me that it might not be so much that I hate Serge, but the person I become when around him.  
  
Serge fills the gap that three can’t fill and five makes overkill. If I may dare to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming _again_ for a moment, and suppose - just _suppose_ \- that I took off this jacket and set the entire Chivers identity aside. Under those terms, I can kneel backwards before God and confirm most sincerely that _I appreciate Serge as a fellow learner and student._  
It’s true. Might have mentioned before, but I met him in Russian class, and he remains my speech partner to this day. I have never seen anyone else so finickety with language, he's probably the most decent at it out of everyone I know; that is, when he's not botoxing himself in class or trying to get with girls.  
  
Granted, I am also guilty of the latter, but whatever. It's _him_ who gets prissy about it, making sure his hair looks good (it does only 62.21% of the time) [1] whenever anyone’s around, wearing double watches,[2] frowning upon all use of addresses such as 'm'lad' or 'm'lady' whether ironic or not because he says they sound lazy and insincere. I could forgive most of this if not for the fact that he's so _obviously_ trying to take my place - if he weren't so _smug_ about having Dannyboy's attention. Every time my Serge tolerance levels are exceeded I am aware of how squirmy and uncomfortable he makes me feel, and though I regret it, said tolerance level isn't that high.  
He was making me feel this way even when he was but a baby Chivers; we all went out for karaoke to celebrate his initiation, and he sang the song 'Casablanca' by Bertie Higgins, which I'd never heard before. Serge was like _so_ emotionally invested, and about two thirds of the way through, as the lyrics fell into place, it clicked for me that the song was his _life_ and I fucking hated him.  
If I didn’t know him better I’d say he had a _complex_. Heh. _Loser._ And now my toenail lacquers have dried so I’m abed. Nighty-night, all.

\----------  
  
**1.** I know this because of _statistics._  
**2.** I could forgive this if they were his _own_ watches, but at least one is Max’s, so he’s not even a rat-bastard who can _afford_ to be a rat-bastard...

 

\-----

 

**[07/14/17, 7:11]**

What a _beautiful_ day! Birds are singing, the sun is shining through dewdrops, and the lawn is as sweet-smelling and _impeccable_ under the blue sky as I could _possibly_ want it. I know the day might have only just begun, but my God, how _splendid_ it still is!  
... I only wish I was looking at it with somebody.

(Dannyboy and I talked last night and made it up.  
If you like. Uh. Couldn't tell.)

 

**[07/14/17, 16:32]**

I can see the conversation between Dan and myself needs expanding.  
Okay here is how it roughly went down. Record-keeping and all.

This happened on the thirteenth. I felt pretty awful going to bed on the twelfth night and it didn't improve _massively_ upon waking up. When not even blaming Serge for my problems works, I know I'm in trouble. The moment I was washed and dressed I returned to my room and drank all my laced moloko and then some, because what the hell, I might as well enjoy it while it's there. I was just glad I didn't do that _before_ bed, or I'd have spent all night crying about the situation Bernadette and Dan put me into, and I know this because a pinch of nutmeg in my moloko always makes me think of my beloved ones and whenever I imagine them not being nice to me I cry and have dreams where I am the center of their world, the word _dream_ keeping it credible.

I waxed lyrical about Bleue and the Chivers sometime ago.  
All that holds true still. I am very proud. Chivers are as socially conscious as any informed chelloveck out there. But sometimes, when I awake to the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling and feel at razor-sharp ease with the world, I like to imagine a group of people who are almost _all_ deeply out of touch with their emotions. A group that due to socio-political-economical reasons is not generally permitted to have a handle on what they feel at _any_ particular moment, while being driven almost entirely by those feelings that they neither fully grasp nor experience, while also being happy to believe that they are _extremely_ logical and make all their decisions accordingly.

That's us. That's the Chivers. That's men.

Anyway.

It was afternoon before I decided to face up to my problems. I stopped at a store on the way to pick up some _special_ moloko as a coping mechanism. So there I was, sitting on his steps under the sweltering heat, drinking a straight liter of chocolate milk and minding my own business, when Dannyboy came out and immediately got really worried for my health. No sight of any _stragglers_ , or any of the Chivettes (Bernadette or otherwise). He asked me what the hell I was doing and I asked him what the hell he thought I was doing, and then he sighed and said he got it, and sat next to me: 

> **D:** Did Serge give you my message?
> 
> **F:** All too clearly. [ _Resisting the temptation to down the chocolate milk completely, a sign of disrespect when the leader is talking._ ] So when can we expect the fifth member of the Chivers? Tomorrow? Next week? Or is a _resignation_ expected, perhaps?
> 
> **D:** Not that soon, no, no, and no. [ _Pause, and stare._ ] Did Serge not tell you? The Chivettes are thinking of taking in a final one of their own and we've got to match, that's the only reason for recruiting. Back when we had lunch together, like two weeks ago?
> 
> **F:** ... Yes?
> 
> **D:** It was going on as far back as then.
> 
> **F:** Why didn't you tell us earlier?
> 
> **D:** [ _Rubs head_.] Well, damn. You know the ladies don't interfere with our politics, and we don't mess with theirs. I know nobody says this anymore, but I didn't want to put _all my eggs in one basket_ \- hell, I didn't even know what _kinds_ of baskets I had until Odette told me how their recruitment was going. I don't want a group imbalance, but in case their recruiting falls through, I'm not about to make quick promises to just any rando out there that they can be a Chivers too, you know?
> 
> **F:** ... So... [ _Pause, then puts down chocolate milk._ ] ... nothing's been set in stone yet?
> 
> **D:** Nobody says that anymore.
> 
> **F:** Shit. Sorry.
> 
> **D:** No need. [ _Wraps arm around one's shoulders_.] No. Nothing's set. He hasn't even had a facelift, for God's sake. He has potential, but unless he commits to one or gets some kind of treatment like Serge, he's on standby for now. Then of course he'd have to earn his name, and I don't give out names lightly, Félix, do I?

Here I felt like I could smile again. Dan has _never_ failed a test I helped him with, or been injured at a location I've been present in, no matter how violent or helpless the situation.  
I really am his lucky boy. He named me ‘ _Félix_ ’ accordingly, y’know. 

> **F:** Not at all.
> 
> **D:** I'm sorry this got lost in communication. Looks like I should just send out individual texts, or something. I'll keep that in mind. How's the argot going?
> 
> **F:** The German is hard to integrate. [ _Smile._ ] It's about the fourth language I'm cramming in, and maybe I'm getting too experimental, but that's what you get for trusting a _bac L_ taker.
> 
> **D:** Damn. [ _Pause._ ] So I guess it can't be tamed?
> 
> **F:** Not with that attitude.

He laughed and let me set the mysteries for Bleue next week.  
As far as I know, that was all we needed. I am well pleased.

 

**[07/14/17, 16:53]**

It was I who named Bleue. I named it after what swims before your eyes during the hard-won moment of success, the daze of intellect, the agony of belonging.

 

**[07/14/17, 17:53]**

Breaking news: Odette just turned up on my doorstep.  
Handed me a spare key to her forest cabin. She didn't say much, but I think I know what she's getting at: sometime tonight or tomorrow Bernadette wants to tell me a thing. _Alone._

Two hits from the moloko to prepare myself. Don't know what to expect, but luck comes only when you've backup plans for the worst.  
Wish me luck, all.

Chivers!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [07/03/17, 8:10]: Marc Latremouille is the _actual_ name of the professor who appears in the brief Chemistry lesson in _Steak_ , about 27 mins in.  
> * [07/03/17, 8:15]: Félix's real name is Sebastian, for both meta and in-universe reasons. One thing I noticed in this film is that Georges is allowed to keep his name ( _everyone_ calls him that), but Blaise is renamed 'Chuck' for no better reason than Dan thinking 'Blaise' is a shit name. Because of that I think there's a kind of meritocracy going on in the Chivers, where one can earn one's figurative stripes (i.e. name/clothing choices/etc.) through doing something to win Dan's favour. _The Mossflower_ is about exploring this general structure, but for the purposes of this note - there's pretty much no reason to believe that any of the four main Chivers are being called by their original names!  
>  * [07/04/17, 19:27]: A tribute to Harlan Ellison's _"Repent, Harlequin!" Said the Ticktockman_.  
>  * [07/08/17, 19:44]: I've taken 'Bleue' as a pun on the English 'blur'. 'Frais' in turn is a pun on 'vrai' ('true').  
> * [07/10/17, 16:51]: [This is a real song by Sébastien Tellier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vz58Hw9hldw), who also participated in the film music- and character-wise, and later also managed to take this song to Eurovision. How could I leave out the actual Chivers anthem from a tale about the Chivers tbqh  
> * [07/12/17, 6:00]: _Vasina torta_ is a Serbian cake of meringue, biscuit base, and nut filling.


	3. File: July 17 [02]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the second half of July 17.  
> For Chivers slang as a whole, please consult the 'File: Glossary' chapter at the end. General notes about the chapter are below, though they're much shorter than they usually are for my fics.

**The Mossflower - File: July 17 [02]  
**

\--------------------------------------

**[07/18/17]**

Hey hey hey. Things are bad over here. Past days a whirlwind. I have _not_ been able to get my _head_ together since

~~_boulangerie_ visit. pardon me~~

\---

chivers should always be perfect inside and out inside and out inside and out inside and out out _out out **out out**_

\---

~~jesus~~

\---

~~time no longer matters~~

\---

okay just. just hold on and  
let me  
_talk._  
for a while.

The entire day I have been hiding in my room, trying to get a grip on _everything_ that's happened since the fourteenth. If I could wrap my head around _one of those things_ that would be incredibly helpful. That would be _fantastic_. That would be the _tits._ [1] It would be the _one thing_ that's going right in the topsy-turvy world Félix has found himself in. To sum it up in the most figurative terms, and I plead that you forgive me for the rather disgusting imagery: the events of the past few days were akin to being in a three-round boxing match with stomach sloshing full of milk, dodging punches, quivering in my gloves, and wondering when I'm going to find out that out is not better than in. Though at least there would be moloko to sweeten my dying breaths. No Chivers tonight, so we can be early-birds tomorrow; summer language classes begin in the morning and we’ve all agreed to go in together.  
Today is the last and only free day of my reprieve. Today I must put this into words. Today I must _accept_ the things that happened to me, if not necessarily figure out what they mean.

The whole summer lies ahead for that. So Félix. Please.

_Calm down._

\---

Okay.

_Concentrate._

\----------

 **1.** 'Cause I honestly love all of them to bits, regardless of shape or size, as long as they left the sculpting up to _surgeons_ and not, like, _God..._

 

**[07/18/17]**

Round One: Bernadette, fourteenth of July.

I got to the forest cabin around seven o'clock. The spare key Odette gave me gleamed in the last of the sun as I opened the door and went in. I did not have cause to see this key again until later in the night, no longer in the cabin, disrobing my clothes out of anguish and disappointment; Bernadette was there, waiting, looking more conflicted than I had ever seen her in my life.

Beautiful scarf around her neck. It was burgundy. I offered her some moloko with chocolate and she gave me one with coffee. Together we sat on the porch and stared into the night sky as we discussed the things we needed to talk about; while I omit much of the small talk out of respect for the lady (for she is one, regardless of our involvement or lack thereof), the long and short of it is that she doesn't see us going anywhere. None of the _it's not you, it's me_ business either. There is a problem with _me._ I appreciate her honesty but god _damn_ it if it doesn't sting.

But hey. I kind of saw it coming. There isn't anybody else in the picture, which was the thing I _didn't_ see coming - the other half of the problem lies with her future with the Chivettes, plus the fact that she no longer knows what to think of Dan, which I found most _alarming_. Our discourse tonight made abundantly clear that based on the time Dannyboy turned up at my house without prior notice, she didn't think he respected our relationship, nor myself, nor that I would stand up to him if need be. "I want to see a lot more _self-respect_ ," she said, downing her moloko and pushing the bottle aside with a sigh. "from you, from Serge, from Max. Dan's got plenty of that, if only he'd spare a little bit for everyone _else_ ; from what you tell me about Bleue, he gets hit the least. Maybe the Chivers see things differently to how we do things, after all."

Well, useful to get that learnt. Self-respect is a subjective thing, so if she couldn't see it out of me I wasn't going to talk her into believing it; the objective facts were that, _facts,_ and I couldn't talk those down. Because it's true. Dan sets most of the mysteries, so save for the times he gives that privilege away (still can’t wait for my turn, soon), he's not one getting hit.  
He also scores absolutely nothing at all ever, but I don't reckon that was important to Bernadette, and I know better than to hold onto somebody who doesn't want to stay.

I mean, like. It's _Bernadette_. The one who drives Nazis out of burger joints and wears the blood of her enemies on her fashion accessories. The Max of the Chivettes. If she demands more self-respect then you better have it handy, or step aside until you unearth some more from the self-respect mines.

Such is life.

I asked her if she would continue to Chivette at least. She said she would, but her expression was grim. Their recruitment isn't going well, so that we might be one _less_ a Chivette as opposed to one more, which has _devastating_ implications for our mutual power structure. Not even Dannyboy can interfere, though, so we’ll have to wait to hear more. I drained my moloko and lay down on the porch as the caffeine hit and she stroked my hair and asked me if I wanted us to get potstickers together.

I had absolutely no idea what she was on about, just as she had no idea what I was on about, even when I heard her out and asked her if she meant gyoza. It took about an hour before we realized they were two different terms for the same thing.  
Oh _how_ we laughed. And then broke up. We did remain friends and there's a small star next to my name in her contacts. We got lo mein instead and ate it in the backseat of my truck. Then I drove her home and started back to my own; Odette texted halfway through, offering her support for if I ever wanted to _talk about anything._ So I had the reassurance that this was not the end of the world. I've dealt with circumstance and rejection before; my relationship with the previous Lunette ended because she moved away, there wasn't anything I could have done about that. Some drinks, some time to mope, and some _serious_ contemplation on what self-respect entails in my case - and I'd have gotten over this with no lasting regrets, Bernadette or no Bernadette.

And then shit got really weird.

\---

Round Two: my horrible, _horrible_ neighbours, fourteenth of July.

Last week I wrote something about wanting to kill my neighbours. Maybe I should have.  
Last week I wrote about new garbage bins coming around. We turned out to be the last house on the block to switch over; ours arrived on the _sixteenth_ , and while it is an exquisitely shiny and useful receptacle I can't help but resent its tardiness somewhat. None of Round Two would have happened if it'd come on time.

I returned late and disembarked my truck to find my home dark and silent. Mama had gone out during the night. I'd just taken off my boots and had tossed my Chivers jacket on the living room sofa - which was a wise thing to do - when the bell rang, the actual bell, at nearly midnight. I was already on edge from Bernadette, and what she had left me for had made me overly sensitive to unexpected guests, which made me feel just about ready to hurl a milkbottle at whoever was at the door.  
For a moment I even thought I'd have done it for _Dannyboy_. That was how pissed off I was. Thankfully it was momentary, and less thankfully, the emotion did _not_ see me through as I opened the door and found myself face to face with three elderly women who live in the neighbourhood.

"What the fuck?" I asked, which was most definitely not the wise thing to do. The baboochka in front of me immediately hurled a _massive_ bag of trash into the doorway, hitting me on the thigh and bouncing off to spill open all the way out our garden path. I was fucking _aghast,_ and would have been even if I wasn't pre-soaked with trash juice at all.

"You didn't _actually_ think you could get away with ignoring the new regulations, young man, did you?" The old woman who was spying on me only a few days before shouted, jabbing her flabby finger into my chest. On her other hand she brandished an envelope with my name on it, crumpled with the remainders of yesterday's rice grains stuck on it, and tossed it to the ground. "Sixty-five _years_ I've lived in this area, barring all the hoodlums and the protesters and the _conservatives_ over the years, and never have I had to go around digging in _someone else's trash_ before this point. Do this one more time, you or your mother or the _both of you_ , and we'll make sure the council hits you with all the fines it can!"

And like I should probably have said something, like along the lines of ' _I didn't take this trash out'_ or _'we don't have a bin to put this in_ ' or whatever, which were all true statements. Unfortunately the envelope definitely had my name on it and the trash _did_ belong to us; that wasn't debatable, either. The horrendous old bitches went away after that and I looked down at the open bag, turning on the porch light with shaky hands, to find the crumpled notepaper I'd pushed to the bottom of the trash were on the top of the pile, rolling along the cold windswept surface of the lawn.

 _Bernadette, for love of you I cannot sleep,_ the papers said.  
_Call me, speak to me, my darling. I worry about you,_ they said.  
The countless failed letters of mine. Moloko-drunk and frenzied, never sent and unneeded, doubtless unfolded and passed between those women who read them cackling and shaking their heads. Stuck together with mouldering potatoes that crumbled wetly in my hand, the eyewatering stench of milk gone sour and curdled, and the edges pierced with the picked-clean carcass of various birds, my own rubbish felt to me as foreign and unrecognizable as anyone else's.

And the knife everyone was holding continued the twisting.

I lost count of how many times I retched before I cleaned up the mess and re-bagged everything. Hosed down the path, too, in the middle of the night. The stench and shame I carried inside the house, and I hated it so _much_ that I had to _strip off_ right there and then, the untainted shirt shoved in the machine and my jeans abandoned in two extra layers of trash bags. Nobody was there to see, but the anger and disgust in me was so great that I did not want to linger indoors even for a moment longer: yes, my Deborahs, as the night ticked forwards into July fifteenth, Félix was not the perfect Chivers he spent such a long time trying to become. So I opened the back door and just walked out, entirely naked, my cute arse shining in the moonlight as I paced about and lamented my ill luck, thinking sadly of the time when my neighbours were not wankers.  
It used to be good once. We were tight. Every stone and home built upon a foundation of moloko. What happened?

I'll be damned if I know. The stench still haunts me.  
This would have been enough weird shit for one night, but. But then.

 _Then_ I came face to face with Round Three.

\---

Dear diary,

Now listen up, because I need your help. I keep tripping halfway down the garden path due to a loose paving stone. I have sprained my ankle twice and broken my wrist once. And before you say anything, I _can't_ fix the granite. _Don't_ ask me to fix the granite. Don't suggest that I order a new one, don't make me call somebody to fix it, and especially don't ask me to do something as sensible as _going around it,_ because if I did that I'd have to walk on the grass like I'm some kind of _pleb._ I mean, like, I know those paving stones are old; while this particular stone is the first to have gotten loose completely, the rest of them are cracked through as well, and crumble the moment you try to put any significant load upon them. Everybody else just goes around it, but I'm not _everybody els_ e, and I just _love_ walking down this old, warped, _broken-as-shit_ garden path and nobody can convince me that there are better garden paths anywhere else. This garden path _needs_ me, because without me, it's got nobody to continue walking all over it. All I want from you are _suggestions_ to help me avoid tripping on the garden path again. I can take it from there.  
And if that sounds like a metaphor to you, I suggest you shut that mouth and open it only to fill it up with moloko. Because I'm dead set on seeing this through. _Dead fucking serious._

I heard Round Three approaching a minute away while I was still in the garden, the wind caressing over my naked body. It was Dannyboy all right, I could recognize his engine five walls away; no notification, yet again, but I was prepared this time. I was honestly more surprised that he wasn't with the other Chivers. By the time I'd put on a nightgown he was at the door.

"I'm coming," I called to the symphony of knocks and bell-ringing that followed. No concern for volume, because again, fuck the neighbours. I tried to open the door and it just wouldn't budge. Turns out Dannyboy was leaning on it; mystery solved. Dannyboy was a lot stronger than I expected; another mystery solved, though I never asked for it in the first place. I was pounding and shoving at the door several times before he finally stumbled aside, and by God.  
Whatever they laced his moloko for the night with - and yes, it was _definitely_ that - it was way too much.

Dannyboy was a _mess_. Trembling like his legs didn't know whether to give up or to continue to gamble on his weight. His breath was uneven and smelled of mint moloshakes. I want to say there was some kind of hello or a proper greeting procedure, but the truth is the moment the door opened, he pretty much fell _against_ me and left me to support dead weight on my own. His Chivers jacket was gone and his shirt was halfway unbuttoned, only partly tucked into his trousers; I still have no idea what happened to him before he came to my house, nor what kind of gears were turning in his head that he took the turn here instead of his original destination. Under his breath he was repeatedly saying something. It took me several tries to understand what he was on about; _solée_ , he appeared to be muttering nonstop, _solée_.

 _"Soleil?"_ I offered eventually. He looked at me in the eyes, took a step back, and immediately proceeded to toss his cookies.  
I only wish I could say that was literal, and I can. I also wish I could say that they were the _good_ kind of cookies, but then I wouldn't be complaining about it here. It was seeing the stream of vomit splash against the doorway which jolted me into the realization that he meant _désolé._

Not that the apology, like. _Meant_ anything by that point.

 _"Jesus fuck!"_ I screamed, again with no consideration for volume, but it was warranted this time. Dan edged away after a moment and was sick in the lawn instead, but it'd already flecked against the tiles and the edges of my boots (thankfully spare). And what was more, in order to prevent him from falling headfirst into his own bullshit, I necessarily had to _step_ in it.  
Looking back on it, maybe that'd have been the better option; at the time, though, it was either my bare feet, which would be possible to clean later, or any of my or my mother's shoes, which would not be. It was neon green and felt like hot minty slime. Most of it wasn't solid and ended up on the lawn, but I think some kind of cake was definitely part of it because it emerged relatively intact. Possibly carrot, because I could see the _chunks_ under the streetlights and they glowed orange in the way sodium lighting alone can't fake, along with curled bits of icing and chocolate sprinkles and bubbling fizz and _fuck_ it it's late and I'm getting hungry writing about miserable shit. I'll come back to this. Give me a second.

...

Back with some vasina torta. Not the old lot, a new one.  
It's warm outside. The whipped cream is melting atop my plate and it reminds me of something wistful, something unfulfilled, something _dirty._

...

Never mind. _Concentrate,_ Félix.

So there I was with Dan, holding his head steady as he expelled most of the contents of his stomach and then some. It went on forever, and if I wasn't so disgusted I think I'd have been impressed. Not sure what I'd use this knowledge for, though, telling people that my leader is as good as a human fountain won't go over too well. "Odette," he slurred once he was finally done. " _Odette_. I told you I was sorry."

A milkbottle slipped from his hand and rolled in the grass. Empty and cracked, like suburbia.

"Odette's _five streets away_ , for God's sake! Get the hell out of here!"

"I came to see Odette! Let me in..."

As much as I like Dan, this was too much for a humble chelloveck like me to take in one night. "Who hurt you, Danny?” I shouted, shaking him hard. “Who hurt you _so much_ that you ended up with the wrongest opinion in the wrongest neighbourhood? You're _safe_ now, Deborah moy, no need to lash out. Thanks for the brand-new paint job on the porch, too, but really, _no thanks!"_

And I tell you, O my Deborahs, _that_ seemed to snap him out of it. The light in his eyes clicked right back on as he stared at me, then at the number on the door, then at the mess he'd made. He was silent for a long time, the gears turning in his head again, and when the facts of the matter had sunk in he _slowly_ raised his hand and covered his mouth with it. I almost thought he was going to be sick again, but he did not; a look of profound _horror_ entered his eyes, instead, which gave me a grim sense of satisfaction. It isn't often I get a hold on Dan's weakness.

 _I want to see a lot more self-respect_ , Bernadette's words rang in my head.

"... This is not Odette's house," he said.

Nice going, Bernadette. You were my friend to the very end.

"This is _not_ Odette's house," I said. "this is Félix's house. And while you're here, standing on the doorstep of his humble abode, you might do well to learn the five Commandments of this holy ground. One: Félix is always right. Two: I will listen to Félix. Three: I will not insult Félix's person, Félix's mother, or taint Félix's possessions or general environment while I remain Félix's guest. Four: Félix is God. Five: Félix, being God, has therefore decided that _he does not appreciate further paint jobs to his house,_ and you will _not_ projectile-vomit on or apply any such unwanted substance anywhere near his surroundings without his express permission. _Are we all clear?"_

And I am happy to inform you, my brothers, Dan's Chivers honour was not gone. He calmed down and stepped up immediately. "I am so sorry," he said, and although I am not sure whether he registered me as Félix, he acknowledged his faults and fetched the hose without me having to ask. He cleaned the entire garden path twice over, as well as scrubbing my porch and doorway with some help from me. I was mostly taking care of the shoes, but by the time I looked up - save for the water glistening on the paving-stones and the soaked blades of grass on the edges, why, it was as if nothing had happened at all.  
I gestured to his milkbottle. He picked it up and gave it to me obediently. What I was gaining from this experience is that Dan might be as pliable under pain as he is fond of giving it to us, which is very much a desirable and unsurprising Chivers trait, just not one that I see out of him very often. "While you're at it," he said, and gave me something crumpled from his pocket. "if you could... throw this away."

Fuck throwing away someone _else's_ garbage usually, but then I asked for the milkbottle. I mostly just wanted him gone. "Sure," I said, and watched him disappear into the dark. By the time his truck roared out of the neighbourhood, it was nearly three o'clock on the fifteenth and I was very much ready for bed. I tossed the milkbottle in the recycling, but failed to do the same for the other thing he'd given me, shoving it in my nightgown pocket as I closed the curtains, locked the door, and put on a Sibelius to help me forget the outside world as I slept. And that is where I have been left, folks. These are the pieces I had to pick up.

How I wish it could have been the last.

My last thoughts were not of Dan, or Bernadette, or the garbage rotting away at the back.  
It was an address to God. Begging his forgiveness, because, uh. About being God. I didn't mean that _literally._  
Apparently I didn't apologize hard enough, because as of today -

\- my world remains turned upside down.

 

\-----

 

**[07/19/17]**

When I was younger I fell in love with a showroom display. All summer the silky-thin dresses and snakeskin purses lingered, juvenile Félix with soft unsteady hands pressed against glass, tracing each limb and material good with stars in his eyes; all summer I believed, at the height of my immaturity, that real people stepped out of the display every night to give their stiff arms and legs a rest. I was five years old before I grasped the concept of mannequins, and even then Mama had to demonstrate it to me, taking me inside the mall to point out every fake joint and carved fingertip.

But even though my love was predicated on perceived realness, recognizing the _artificial_ nature of the showroom made me love it even more.  
The summer came to an end on September first, and so did the display, although they had never planned on taking it down _that_ soon. From the wreck of the display they pulled out a blue-eyed little boy, lying amidst disembodied torsos, fiberglass limbs arranged so that they reached towards his face with outstretched fingers, one wirebound hand with plaster unraveling curled around his pale cheek as he _bit_ and _licked_ and tried to figure out what made perfection tick.

...

Félix has always had problems with authenticity. I think that is the moral of my childhood.  
Perhaps that was the last time I was truly invested in doing something for its _own_ sake. Ever since I got older I have been significantly more boring, missing opportunity after opportunity because I was too peer-pressured and spaghetti to _carpe diem,_ doomed to lie down and blame other people for my own inaction as age caught up to my body and all free will rotted away. And Félix looked and Félix sought and Félix _believed_ , men and women and Chivers alike, but never again was he able to find a motive as raw and truthful as the one that showroom had given him.

That is, until now.

...

The thing Dan gave me to throw away. It was an envelope.  
I have read what was inside it for the seventh time in a row. It is mine to toss away, and mine to treat as I will, I have no guilt about this whatsoever; what is more, considering that it is a _letter_ , I find it hard to believe that it _wasn't_ in some way meant for my eyes. It is ambiguous enough that I cannot tell, and the moment I try to put thought into it my heart pounds thickly and a metal taste comes into my mouth. The top quarter is missing, but here is what it says. 

> _… humbled I am, endlessly through the visage I know so well. Tonight I have finally decided to pick up the pen again, though my fear is that this letter, too, will go unsent like all of its sisters before it. I can only pray that my courage will see me through - too often have I told myself, in the most foolish fancies of mine, that I will have other chances as if you would not leave me forever once our Terminale year is complete. And yet I must wait, my cowardly heart demands every night, until better words come. Until I can face you and tell you what I feel honestly in the way you deserve._
> 
> _But again. Time is short and I shall have lost you by the time better words come. So this is but a preview, for I desperately need a way to make known my feelings for you, lest I be consumed by it._  
>  _Here it is:_
> 
> _I love you._
> 
> _Forgive me my selfishness, this is not how you would want to be loved, never like this from a distance. My heart finds no small relief in confession, even if it is only to myself, even if unrequited. You will be disappointed in me, no doubt, for I am not even far from you - believe me, I know that one day I must come clean. I promise that I will. So please, my love, I bid you to wait. One day I will appear to you, a bouquet of roses in hand, unspoken prayers echoing in my heart that you will find my words sweet spoken and unspoken alike._  
>  _But sometimes the look on your face makes me think that nothing will come of it at all; perhaps I will forever be hiding, secretive to the death, my love a return to the bittersweet courtly days. I dream of you often and you are always beautiful, forever unobtainable, your dark hair ruffled in the breeze as you stand at the forest edge like a fae seeking to return to the place of their birth. In my dreams I burn with the longing to hold you, the back of your creamy neck gleaming against the sun, your blue eyes focused upon mine._
> 
> _What is love? What even is it that it can get away with hurting this much?_  
>  _Love is the opium of the soul and the war between bodies, or so I hear; fine, then, you shall have mine, soul and body both. Save me not scold me, my darling, save my soul, may God help us both._
> 
> _Dan xxx_

I had forgotten this letter since the fifteenth. I found it in my gown pocket in the morning; it was yesterday before I found the courage to read it; the discovery shook me to the core, inspiring the long and hasty record of the curious events of that night.  
I have not seen Dan since. There were texts, of course. Calls. _Apologies._ But it won't be until the language class later today that I will be able to meet him face to face. I have absolutely no idea what to expect and no clue as to how I should react around him, now that I have seen into this part of his soul.

I am trying to calm myself.  
I tell myself there's no guarantee that it was for me.  
He was looking for Odette that night, after all. Right?

 

It's just that, like, Odette is _green-eyed._

...

Tell you the truth. I respect Dan, but I have always regarded him with a passive, desirous anger in that _he would just not do his part._ That is the fundamental core of sadomasochism. There are only so many times you can take pain from someone before you start wondering when _that_ fucker's about to get his. Dan can be nothing but sweet and affectionate, but despite this he's still got his slutty flaws which I've always known I would have to work with, defeat, or take my leave from eventually. I did not think there was more to Dan than this. I hoped for _improvements_ \- I might even have hoped for _depravity_ , so that there was a reason to stop respecting him - I had believed that all he truthfully had to give amounted to this and _only_ this, or else it was not for Chivers eyes, no point in chasing after such a thing.

But this letter. _These words._

 

It may not mean anything, if it was meant to be garbage. But I...

 

 

I... never knew.

 

_I never knew._

 

\-----

 

**[07/20/17, 2:14]**

            shot to my heart  
                i yell blyat  
                    youuuuuu... call meee... a kulak  
                        *sick hardbass plays in the background*

 

**[07/20/17, 3:01]**

no i havent talked to danny boy don;t know whhatt he wants,,;

 

**[07/20/17, 16:38]**

Highlights from second day of language class: 

> **S:** What's ‘milk’ in Serbian?
> 
> **M:** _‘Moloko’._
> 
> **S:** That’s Russian. What is it in Serbian.
> 
> **M:** [ _Thinks hard_.] Still ‘ _moloko_ ’, isn't it? I think Félix might have mentioned it once?
> 
> **S:** That'd be great news if Félix wasn't known for fucking with me at every opportunity, but I'll bite. [ _Leans over_.] Félix. _Félix_ , my friend, my boy, my absolute _lad._ What's ‘milk’ in Serbian?
> 
> **F:** _‘M’leko’._
> 
> **S:** [ _Immediately loses it_.] You bastard. You only said that to piss me right the _fuck_ off you _goddamned milk bitch_ just because you _speak the language_ you think it have it so eas - [ _Stares at the dictionary entry that has since been held up to his face, Félix's phone screen glowing brightly as he stares at Serge impassively._ ] ... I'll be damned. Uh. _Fuck._ Sorry, Félix. I take it back. I couldn't _believe-_
> 
> **D:** Quit it, Serge, or you'll solve mysteries all next week.

We're back to business, I guess...

 

**[07/20/17, 16:54]**

Also some dude in class got a full-on facelift. Good on him.  
Nice seeing _somebody_ actually acting to up the quality of his life, while most of us lounge to a Blue Wet Shirt track and perch on chairs and gaze out of sunlit windows with sleepy eyes...

 

**[07/20/17, 16:58]**

My favourite’s [‘Itea’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdpU4Mj1GA4).

 

**[07/20/17, 19:34]**

Chivers!

Nothing happened with Dan today. He contributed to language class like a bright-eyed and well-meaning seetoyan, then we all soupsayed around dejeuner to meet up later. He smotted fine - just quiet, save for shutting Serge up. I'm so tense with anticipation I think I'm die  
Despite so much Chivers activities happening during school days, it's not actually the best time to observe us badmuffs at our best, so I'll give it the whole nebula before I decide what I do about his letter or what I should think about Dan. The fact that Bernadette and I crashed and burned is making me burn about it crashing and burning still so I shan’t make haste, live up to my name.

 

\-----

 

**[07/22/17, 3:34]**

**EXTRA EXTRA READ ALL ABOUT IT I CANNOT BE L I E V E**

\- Saturday, 3:01 AM - 

> **O:** Hi hi hi. Something to Félix needs telling. [3:01 AM]
> 
> **F:** Chivers! At this hour? [3:01 AM]
> 
> **L:** Verily ja. Were you at the milkbar tonight? Any of you gammons? [3:02 AM]
> 
> **F:** No. [3:03 AM]
> 
> **L:** We think someone was trying to claim Chivers honour. [3:03 AM]
> 
> **F:** What??? [3:03 AM]
> 
> **I:** full tet bandage / dark slightly curly hair [3:04 AM]
> 
> **I** : no jacket / blue jeans / dark shoes (not boots) [3:04 AM]
> 
> **I:** we smotted him smecking about with truckers [3:04 AM]
> 
> **I:** leasing a truck apparently the sooka [3:04 AM]
> 
> **I:** sound familiar? [3:05 AM]
> 
> **F:** ... [3:06 AM]
> 
> **I:** it should. chelloveck from language class. [3:06 AM]
> 
> **L:** Bernadette ittyed over to have mots with the badmuff. Full chas ago was that. Maybe this is just a gross malentendu from all involved, at which point she will be back to update. If not she'll crack him in his own lilyborn tet, and that's the same difference. [3:09 AM]
> 
> **L:** But the thing is. [3:11 AM]
> 
> **L:** Dan needs talking to. [3:13 AM]

oh fuu u u uuu c c kk

 

**[07/22/17, 16:30]**

An old longing tickles my fingertips. Breathe in, and pause.  
Tilt my head back for one last sip. Throw away the bottle.  
Remind me never to buy those again. Almond milk, I mean;  
they're made of deception and children's tears for all I know.

Daylight fading away in the sixteenth _arrondissement._

...

No Chivers tonight. Reconvening on Monday.  
I may have needed a break for longer than I thought. Bernadette did update: the facelift dude wasn't trying to claim anything in the name of Chivers. But he is the so-called straggler I mentioned a while back, he _did_ talk to Dan, and while Dannyboy did _not_ know about his activities last night he was more surprised than outraged to hear of them. He isn't likely to turn down someone who committed himself to a full-on facelift as well as an entire lifestyle change _that_ easily, is the consensus - Dan has always admired _dedication_ in the Chivers, so much we'd value the bond we'd gain through all kinds of pain and ruin more than the thought of running _away_ from said pain and ruin altogether.

Didn't get the sense he himself knew what to make of the situation. The tone of his last group message was less ' _We can work through this together_ ' and more ' _Child, peel me a grape_ '. So there's that.  
And maybe if the events of last week _hadn't_ happened, I'd have wanted to give this rookie the full-on interrogation treatment, inquiring after every motive and intent like I did with Serge. But somehow, I don't _want_ to anymore. Now is also when it strikes me that this may be why Serge insists on being bratty with me personally; but then, like, it's not as if he was _right_ or anything.

I may just have been wrong.

...

Above me: pale mannequins on an old dance floor.  
Lifeless. Useless. I see them pose nevertheless.  
It is as if they have been planted there, by destiny itself,  
to remind me of what I am and what I will be.

To start and finish. To begin and to end.

...

Things have changed in my world to such an extent...

... that I wonder if a fifth person was _ever_ the problem at all.

...

What is it that I value more?  
Dan’s presence? Opinions? _Expectations?_  
Would I ever have felt such dislike towards this new person - or Serge - or even that momentary burst of loathing towards _Bernadette_ \- if their _proximity_ , their _intentions,_ their _feelings_ towards Dan hadn’t been so important to me?

What is it that compels me?  
**_What do I want from him?_**

 

 **[07/22/17, 19:28]**  
  
Hours of wandering, and where did I end up in the end?  
Back at Dan's house. Peering over the fence.  
I don't know why I do this to myself.  
  
The night is young. I feel like I should be somewhere _else,_ playing the faithful dual role of language creator and milk bitch, every bit of this shell as prim and proper as the Chivers demands. Collar turned up, hair loose, boots quickshined, et cetera. But I suppose this is where I _ought_ to be, if I want to focus on Dan in particular. It may be a bad time, but he whetted my curiosity; he's getting nothing from me that he wasn't asking for, whether he knew it or not.  
  
I still don't know what I want from Dan, but one thing is clear.  
He has, in some fashion, _offended me._  
  
...  
  
Can't hear him. He might not be home.  
  
I don't know whether to be relieved about that.  
  
...  
  
Still have the letter in my pocket. Well, a copy. The original has been thumbed through many times, so many I'd have shredded it within days if I hadn't put it away in storage.  
But the _words_ , I like to carry them with me. Thumb them over. Trace specific ones. Struggle with the urge to rip them apart. There is a _fascination_ in me, a fire burning somewhere deep in my belly, that flares up every time I read these words in particular: _forgive me my selfishness._ I'm still no closer to figuring out if Dan meant that letter for me, but I have come to realize that his _affections_ aren't really what I ought to focus on. I have been shaken, and it is _not_ because I fear that he does or doesn't love me. It's not even because he turned out to have a sensitive and literary side.  
  
No, it is as I said. _Dan has offended me._ He has conflated together what should never have been.  
I am offended, because every time I look at his letter I get _literally_ heartsick: my emotions a torrent of breathless ecstasy, my body nauseous from the sight of trash and vomit. It alarms me that _this_ is the connection I was forced to make to what could have been such a beautiful memory - even if that letter had never been meant for me, had Dan given it to me at any other time his sentimental side would have seemed more adorable to me than _deceptive._ And to think he told me to throw it away - to think he created something so lovely, and then crushed it down to garbage, like it just didn't _matter-_  
  
  
  
I wonder just how much of his art he abandoned to rot away.  
  
  
  
I wonder.  
  
  
  
I might have to... _experiment..._  
... to find out.  
  
I’d like to.

 

\-----

 

 **[07/24/17, 8:40]**  
  
\- Bottled beer cap  
\- Instant noodle package x 2  
\- Rubber glove (R)  
\- Tissues (60%)  
\- Onion peel  
\- Potato peel  
\- Carcass  
\- Apple core x 10  
\- Hair (avg. 10-20cm)  
  
Windows open. The bath is shiny and gleaming white.  
Took nearly half the bleach to get the stains out.  
My hands, red.

 

 **[07/24/17, 9:08]**  
  
Someone's screaming outside. I think the old lady next door.  
Crows fluttering on her lawn. Digging into the pieces.  
They dip their heads onto the lawn and emerge again,  
screaming triumphant, beaks stained _green_ and _white_ and _red._  
Mostly red. Dark vinyl caught in her bushes, swaying.  
A trash bag, regulated size, exactly the kind she likes.  
  
  
  
Oh, dear.  
  
I wonder what h a p p e n e d .

 

 **[07/24/17, 13:17]**  
  
So we met the new lad.  
  
His name is Georges. With luck he might earn a better one later. For all the misgivings I had about him, he was _remarkably_ honest with us, showing us pictures of himself before the facelift as well as what he'd been doing before he decided that the Chivers seemed worth joining. _Pure admiration_ , he claimed, which is as genuine a reason it gets for us - a relief, because for Serge, Max, and myself, the concern was that he was trying to claim our name for benefits’ sake and the Chivettes were worried that he was stalking us.  
  
I mean - as detached as I feel about this at the moment - I can say that the rookie still has a long way to go. They haven’t _stopped_ being suspicious of him yet, because him joining rushes their recruitment of a fifth Chivette. When you enter a respectable organization, the last thing you do is to shake up the place the _second_ you put your foot in. Serge is still unhappy - he went in with guns blazing, as I expected him to. Dan was quiet. Max spent more time looking at me than anyone else, doubtless wondering why I didn't have my guard up.  
  
He was right. This meeting, for me, was not about the new lad at all.  
No, I was watching Dan. He's tidied himself hugely over the weekend: the ends of his hair trimmed, his nails filed straight, his face shaved completely clean. I noticed that those were all things he ought to have been doing before - after all, Chivers must be perfect, inside and out, and is he not a Chivers?  
We’ve been too lenient on him. That, or _I’m_ oversensitive, what with having all my Dan-related paradigms questioned in short order; who knows, there might be slips on our part that Dannyboy saw fit to ignore, in which case _forgiveness_ is a chief Chivers virtue or else none of us are really Chivers at all. All of those things were on my mind when we convened to discuss Georges’ admission.  
  
I voted yes. My vote got him in, I’m sure.  
He’ll join us after summer. This is hopefully enough time for me to figure out some essential things about Dan. Call it self-centered, but I’m interested in what Dan’s attitudes towards others _mean_ , and the more _data_ I have the better.  
  
...  
  
Just pulled into my driveway. Looked at the neighbours’ lawn.  
All the trash is still there. People are knocking on their door.  
Complaining, no doubt, about the sight and smell of it.  
  
Now that treacherous baboochka knows what it was like.

 

 **[07/24/17, 19:11]**  
  
Can you _really_ call it depression, when your feelings of inadequacy are just an objectively correct identification of the obvious? 

 

\-----

 

**[07/26/17, 8:53]**

At a pancake house, a discussion about the ideal breakfast: 

> **S:** I'll put my money where my mouth is. [ _Gestures down to his plate_.] _One_ egg, _one_ sausage - English-style, cased fresh and grilled - two rashers of bacon, and _one_ slice of toast with real butter to spread over it. As for the sweet component, my favourite is the humble crêpe; I've a real hankering for the savoury today, though, hence the hash browns. Which, if I might say so, should consist _purely_ of potatoes, without any need for the fried coating that they use so often nowadays. It's a shortcut for laziness. I never trust anyone who wants their potatoes to come with a _coat._
> 
> **F:** Disgraceful. [ _Sips milkshake disdainfully_.] The number of eggs cannot be less than two, and the number of bacon rashers, which _must_ be the streaked kind and in a state somewhere between mealy and charcoal, should at least be equal to the number of eggs. Hash browns, if any, should take up a certain amount of room on the plate that is a minimum of thirty percent more than the volume of eggs available. Fried coating is _acceptable_. [ _Looks at Serge in the eye_.] Some form of bread is compulsory; toast is a suitable, yet overly complacent, replacement for _pain-perdu_ , which is in turn a postmodernist mirage of the beauty that is the Belgian waffle. [ _Gestures to his plate_.] The waffle itself should be no less than half an inch thick. Five peach slices, glazed with honey or else still dripping with syrup, atop a single scoop of vanilla ice cream with the vanilla grains still in it, is the only topping that is acceptable. Chocolate or strawberry syrup can work, but you ought to keep it minimal; straight lines, not poured, most certainly not _dipped,_ verging into the decadent. The only exception to this rule is maple syrup, which may be _poured_ into the surface depressions of the waffle to your hearts' content. [ _Takes another bite._ ]
> 
> **S:** Have you quite finished?
> 
> **F:** No, Deborah moy, that is the _point_ ; if you can finish the ideal breakfast within an hour, and subsequently are also capable of any exertion whatsoever during the hour to follow, you are not doing it right.
> 
> **D:** That much we can agree on, Félix, but I might add more _aesthetic_ balance to your suggestions. The perfect breakfast is at least _partly_ about how good it is to look at. [ _Picks up his spoon, and taps at a soft-boiled egg that has been cleaned out, causing the top to cave in a little more._ ] _One_ egg. Just one. It occupies a whole slice of _pain-perdu._ And what's more... it ought to be _poached_. [ _Holds his hand up to dissuage Serge from further speech._ ] Just enough for a mildly fluffy, deep golden yolk. What else. Two bacon rashers, cooked like Félix said, or else two slices of ham, which will go _atop_ the egg.
> 
> **F:** Dan, it's okay. You can say the word. It's not exactly what we're looking for, but a _croque-madame_ is no sin against mankind.
> 
> **D:** [ _Smirk_.] Thank you, but that isn't what I mean. There is no cheese involved. You leave the _pain-perdu_ , meat, and eggs to one side of the plate, and on the other side, you put a sausage or two. Grilled, preferably. Pan-fried is fine, but regardless of method, the chipolata is the only correct type of breakfast sausage. [ _Takes a sip_.] What you need after that... is the humble _pancake_. Fluffy. Thick. Two will do, made with buttermilk, and with a little paper cup of sugar syrup next to it so that you may douse it at your leisure.
> 
> **S:** Buckwheat or normal wheat?
> 
> **F:** _Please_. Everyone knows buckwheat is better reserved for kasha. [ _Dan nods_.] And how should the bacon be smoked?
> 
> **D:** Oh, _hickory,_ I should think. Maple is a close second. Max likes that best, don't you, Max?
> 
> **M:** [ _Having cleared his plate thoroughly by this point_.] Man, I don't even have an opinion. A croissant sandwich always did me fine, and I've never thought too much about the filling, except the croissant _has_ to come from my local _boulangerie._ Not from a shop, not from any other _boulangeries_ , but this one local bakery.
> 
> **F:** Are they known for croissants specifically, perchance. I should go and check it out.
> 
> **M:** No, and in fact their baguettes are the worst I've had. [ _Smirks, and leans back with his coffee half-full._ ] Call it s _upporting local efforts_ ; I've a better choice of soulless capitalist brick-and-mortar ventures to take my business to, but the point is, I deliberately do not. Of course the only better option is to bake your own croissants, but I only did it once before giving up because it's such a goddamn hassle. [ _Sigh._ ] You _cannot_ bake a tray of croissants in two hours and move on with your life. There are _layers_ of dough involved. Paper-thin layers. Overnight proofing in the fridge, if not for _two days_ in a row for better taste. Entire sticks of butter flavoured with your tears. Croissant baking is for those who love to suffer for days on end.
> 
> **F:** [ _Pause._ ] Damned Catholics, I guess.
> 
> **M:** Yes.

It is too bad that I am the only one who takes German.  
Oh, and Odette. I should ask her about breakfast, too.

 

**[07/26/17, 14:52]**

Sleepy afternoon. Truck warming up around me.  
After German class was over I was planning to go home straight away. Didn’t see any point in lingering, and I was still too full for lunch. But then Odette showed up wanting to have a good old _Wörtchen_ and I could hardly say no to the lady, could I?

Odette is closest thing to leader in the Chivettes, but for all the space Dan occupies in my mind, I’ve thought of her much less than that - which, as I’ve discovered recently, might not be a bad thing.  
She told me Bernadette missed me. I told her I missed Bernadette too. But the fact that Bernadette and I were _not_ having this conversation among ourselves was proof enough why meeting up wouldn’t be a good idea, surely, I said, and Odette agreed. I asked her what they were going to name the new recruit when the Chivettes ended up with a fifth and she sighed and rubbed her eyes like she’d been losing sleep over it, so I apologized, only she said it wasn’t necessary.

 _It's not the done thing,_ she said. _No precedent. The winds have changing around here, Félix, and we might not come out the same._

Didn’t have much to add to that.  
I only asked because ‘Jeanette’ sounded like a suggestion. No way Inès is going to give up what makes her unique for the sake of a fifth person. But as she said, these are times-a-changing, and who _really_ knows what’s going to happen?

All the more reason why I need to act fast, while Dannyboy still remains how he is.

 

I’m on my way.

 

**[07/26/17, 16:21]**

Picture the scene.

Standard suburbia. The rain has come and gone.  
Petrichor rising from loamy soil. Dogs muddy puddles.  
Rain beaded on paint; that truck sure got a cleaning.  
Butter-beige garden fences now mahogany with damp.

All of this is my reality. And so’s Dan, only a few steps away.

...

His back’s still turned. Good.

 

I didn’t expect to see him out here, but it works for me.  
I planned to ring the bell. Come in. _Take a good look._  
But, well. You improvise those things. This will do fine.

Dan lives alone now. Whatever he eats or makes, he does it in bulk when he can afford the time, as you’d expect.  
Today he’s shelling peas. His hands pinch the stem and tear it downwards, almost like a pull tab along the entire length of the pod, the plump round spheres scattering into the basin with a casual sweep of his broad thumb. His fingernails are stained green and every now and then a stray pea escapes into the grass, which leads to him awkwardly reaching over to search it out and depositing it back into the basin. He also has very good squat form, but I don’t think that’s _too_ relevant. Just something that I like to see.  
All he’s wearing are tracksuits and an undershirt. Former red with white stripes, the undershirt a pure white, soaked slightly with rain or sweat, I don’t know. The basin is already half full, the empty pod shells discarded in a plastic basket. It’s pink. Everything about this picture is messy, disoriented, and _against_ the prim and clean-cut image that the Chivers espouse.  
A _mesmerizing_ sight, in other words.

...

My lips move to say hello, though no one says _that_ anymore.  
_I like peas too, Dan, who’d have thought. They’ve a nice crunch._  
_Could I have some?_ Or so I try to speak, but today I am mute.

To hell with it. I don’t need speech anyway. All that needs doing is to look once - and to breathe in - for me to imagine the soft furred surface of each pod and the faint strings of fiber clinging to the undersides of his nails. He’ll freeze them no doubt, maybe boil some for supper, each tender-sweet orb rising to the surface of the simmering water when they’re good and ready to go.

I will be there to witness none of it, of course.  
But it doesn’t matter. It’s the discarded pods I want. Out of everyone else’s trash, those pods will tell me what I need.  
I’ve had some practice, after all.

 

**[07/26/17, 20:32]**

I’d wanted to ask Odette an important thing for a while. Didn’t get the chance to until after German, but eventually I blurted it out: _that night Bernadette called me to the cabin, did something happen between you and Dan?_

She smiled at me like she thought it was important, too.  
But in that tight way that signaled that it was likely too important for the likes of me. _He likes carrot cake and I had some at my place,_ was all that she said. _I want to bake him another soon, but Félix, keep it a secret._

I haven’t got a choice, though, do I...

 

\-----

 

**[07/28/17, 7:49]**

**Specimen 09:**

\- Cigarette butts, all filtered  
\- Lightbulb, unbroken x 2  
\- Cola cans, store brand x 11  
\- Dismantled clock parts  
\- Shrimp shells  
\- Hair (avg. 5-10cm)  
\- Menthol cigarette, unsmoked  
\- Carcass (chicken?)  
\- Salmon (head + bones)  
\- Tissues (40%)  
\- Fruit peel (mandarin, apple, pear)  
\- Onion peel  
\- Potato peel  
\- Cabbage leaf  
\- Kids’ pasta meal, defrosted, never eaten.  
\- Chocolate chip cookies, intact.

 **Notes:** Boisterous child in house; presuming a high stress environment; perhaps single mother? - only number 93 fits the bill.

**Specimen 10:**

\- Vodka bottle  
\- Tissues (50%)  
\- Milk carton x 2  
\- Syringe packaging (empty)  
\- Salt container (empty)  
\- Instant curry package x 3  
\- Peppered haddock package x 3  
\- Gold earring x 1  
\- Silver hair (avg. 20cm)  
\- Dog food tins x 10  
\- Air freshener x 1

 **Notes:** Trash only half full; sign of medicating; no peels or signs of active cooking preparation; old woman living by herself? - guessing number 61 / 65 / 79 / 103.

**Specimen D1:**

\- Milk bottle x 35

 **Notes:** So he at least _sincerely_ likes the moloko. Thank God.

 

**[07/28/17, 8:04]**

No, but like: my body was so _ready_ to root around for his garbage. Dan’s neighbourhood has communal receptacles that get emptied weekly, not fortnightly like ours; there are up to three households sharing a receptacle and if I didn’t make my move last night, I’d have lost this week’s batch completely.

Turns out I did anyway. No shelled pea pods anywhere.  
I was confused before I realized he was probably keeping them around to make soup with, and then I just had to laugh - clever, _clever_ boy, making the most out of his god-given legumes, thinking he can outsmart _his_ Félix! Well, he can have his win for now, I’ll just put in more practice with my own neighbours.  
Counted his recycling in the meanwhile; nothing but milkbottles. In that aspect Dannyboy _is_ wholly devoted to the Chivers, and most importantly, to his _milk bitch_ \- ah yes, I was glad to see _that._

Good thing Mama has her own bathroom.  
She won’t come near mine. Bleach in the air stings the eyes.

 

**[07/28/17, 13:52]**

In the absence of things like pea pods to tell his trash apart from the others, I think building up a _general rapport_ with Dannyboy might be a good idea.  
As much as I like to, I can’t watch him in his garden every day or poke my head around whenever to see the kind of things he’s throwing away. I’m just saying it might come in _handy._ Knowing like, where he buys his necessities from (I’d die laughing if it was Carrefour), the brand of shampoo he uses, if he uses _protection,_ stuff like that. Strictly for research. No Chivers. No bullshit. _Honest._

But in the meanwhile, that _boulangerie_ Max recommended me, the one that does good croissants - that should be near here somewhere.  
I’m going to check it out.

 

**[07/28/17, 14:22]**

...

This _boulangerie_ is like...  
... really _fucking awful_...  
baguette heavy... full of salt... h o h my gomd

 

**[07/28/17, 16:36]**

So I didn't bother with the baguette. Two thirds of it sits on the counter. I don't think I'll be going back to the _boulangerie_ even if everything else it had to offer was excellent; I'm sure it should like, literally be a _crime_ to have baguettes that terrible. How badly can you fuck up sugared yeast, water, salt, and flour.

Still, being at a bakery made me think of Odette. I texted her to see whether she'd made Dan any carrot cake yet.  
I think she took it as me _encouraging a relationship_. Apparently the talk we had after German class spurred her on to make the cake and give it to Dan the day after. And if I've guessed right...

...

Well, I'll find out, won't I?

Open the fridge. In the door compartment: a half-liter of chocolate milk. My own treat to myself, for being such a smart lad; my own punishment to myself, seeing as we're due for Bleue.  
There's a lot I want to _give back_ to Dan, obviously, but... I won't take it quite _that_ far yet.

I’ll try not to, at least.

 

**[07/28/17, 17:33]**

Chivers!

Wit chas postdictum any of my Deborahs and Tracys and I am making my way downtown to make up at our cricket ground du coin. It's always the same, the milk bitch with the milk, Dannyboy with the bat, Max with the cube, Serge with absolutely nothing of any importance whatsoever.[1] I could have scarleted all the way there but my truck's far behind me; no, we're _walking_ all the way, petit crate of milkbottles clanging by my side and one more in my right hand.

Four in each crate, one for each of us. I've no idea what I'll do when we're five.  
Use a basket, maybe? Suppose Dan can lend me his? When he's not shelling peas into it, I mean? Is there a _polite_ way to borrow the rightful possession of a chelloveck you stalked?

Smecking away at the thought I am. Good thing I'm alone. Maybe my blood sugar's too low this nebula or something.  
Sweet shop on the way. Last shop before road becomes forest path. I buy me some jellies for sustenance, sladky and sucre nougats of kots and koshkas, and nibble some as I go. They go well with the moloko. On the way a ginger kot stops like preening its khvost and smots at me real funny. I offer out a jelly resembling its brethren.

 _Puss puss puss,_ I say. The future refuses to change. Then I burst out smecking again and it runs into the bushes. O my Deborahs. Methinks I picked up a moloko-plus I never intended. I feel zayebis but it might not be apt Chivers conduct for this particular chas of the jour; Dan might scold me, I supposeth, nothing I can't take.

Dannyboy's letter drifts to mind. _Save me not scold me, my darling, save my soul._  
Part of me wants to try his own mots on him, but only a part. See how he takes it, but again, _only_ a part. Yes yes yes, when it comes down to it, it is a good thing that Félix is wise.

\----------

 **1.** Any of you lubriks reading this statement should ignore it, or whatever shit I've got with that sooka at any one minuta. Just because I know about my own bias doesn't necessarily mean that I want to do anything about it, so filtering it out is _your_ responsibility now. Does that make any sense whatsoever? Maybe it don't but I guess molly makes everything seem reasonable. Peace out and all that cal. Félix loves you. Smoochy-smooch.

 

\-----

 

 **[07/30/17, 8:39]**  
  
**Specimen 15:**  
  
\- Tissues (80%)  
\- Cotton balls, stained red x 10  
\- Cotton swabs x 2  
\- Plastic cover (from nail polish?)  
\- Hair (avg. 5-10cm)  
\- Rococo pearl earring x 1 (set aside)  
  
**Notes:** Bathroom or bedroom trash, nothing much to tell; save, perhaps, for the fact that they’re _decades_ out of fashion.  
  
**Specimen D2:**  
  
\- [Ruminating in bath.]  
  
**Notes:** It won’t be long.

 

 **[07/30/17, 8:50]**  
  
Thank God bleach is cheap. I've about ten bottles in the trash and ten more lined up for use.  
Haven't seen Mama in a day or two. Guessing the smell drove her out. I wonder why she won't just talk to me about those things.  
  
Going to lie down for a while. I feel dizzy.

 

 **[07/30/17, 12:50]**  
  
Sunday morning, up with the lark,  
I think I'll take a walk in the park.  
  
My neighbourhood is respectfully quiet around Sundays. There's not much going on that warrants journaling, but that's a good thing. Home isn't where you go to partake in _interesting times_ , after all.  
Home is where family is. Where the moloko is cold. Where you can leave whatever rubbish you want lying around, by the virtue of it being _your_ space and yours alone, without the fear someone will snatch it up.  
  
Sorry about that, Dan. Though not really.  
  
My footsteps echo cheerfully on the pavement. I am alone. Today everyone's staying locked in their own little homes, hoping that whoever's tearing people's trash apart won't ruin their lawns the next time they come around. There are over a hundred households in this area so I'm not even halfway done, of course, but whatever I make of their trash is practice and nothing more. They're not _important_ , but it amuses me that they _think_ they are.  
  
...  
  
Though I suppose that explains how Parisians function on the whole. I laugh, but then - considering I assumed that I was _inherently_ important to Dan for the longest time - I'm not that different.  
My defense is that _I_ wised up and am doing something about it. There's so much more to being a Chivers than the moloko and whatever whim it fuels, and it's got to do with Dan's emotional landscape. I'm well on my way to discovering what needs doing about it, so I'm not doing _badly_ , all things considered.  
  
Living here is exhausting sometimes. All those _expectations._  
  
  
  
It won’t be long now, Danny boy.

 

 **[07/30/17, 13:45]**  
  
Sometimes I wonder how I'd have turned out if Mama had raised me in Belgrade, as was the original plan.  
I think few geographical regions exist that are more nihilist than the old Yugoslavian territories. It's very pretty, swathes of vast green beauty surrounding wartime emptiness, and the people are lovely, though the last time we were there some rich British fucker used a political visit as an opportunity to advertise his book and they were like ‘such is life, have some more rakija’.  
That’s not on the people of Belgrade, though. _Much worse_ has happened, everyone knows that, but the nihilistic indifference of a nation is no excuse for some clueless idiot to peddle their worthless opinions there like that makes it suddenly okay.

 

 **[07/30/17, 14:30]**  
  
A small evaluation of where we all live.

  * Odette lives closest to me. Not close enough to make her a _neighbour_ , but we're roughly in the same cardinal direction.
  * Dan lives further away in the direction opposite both of us, toeing the border between here and another _arrondissement._
  * Our school forms the third point of the triangle between Odette and I, Dan, and itself; Max and Serge live closest to it, and whatever takeaways or _boulangeries_ Max prefers is situated near that general area.
  * I have no idea where Lunette lives, except that it's not near Dan, Odette, or myself; Inès and Bernadette live the furthest away from all of us, right at the start of another _arrondissement_ altogether.
  * Don't know where Georges factors into this. He hasn't gotten to tail us proper yet, let alone be properly initiated.



Unlike the city or the forest, _suburbia_ isn't Chivers or Chivette territory per se, so where we live is just where we are; sometimes we open our home for a fellow Chivers or Chivette while they get back on their feet, sometimes we host guests there for an evening, and sometimes we defend it with all our might.  
Dan being the only one who lives alone might explain why he’s only hosted us for dinner twice, why he insists on meeting us outdoors, why he’s seldom _home_ during nights to begin with. Maybe I project, but if he’s as lonesome as I think he is...  
  
... why, that poor, _poor_ creature. He could do with a Félix hug.

 

 **[07/30/17, 16:37]**  
  
Met the Chivers bard again. Turns out his name is Prisme, and that he has a lot more excellent music in him if you've the coin to spare. He was sporting a new red jacket marking him as a honorary member of the Chivers - exactly as I'd suggested to Dan sometime ago.  
  
I took this to mean that he'd met Dan personally. Though our circumstances are different, I felt that this forged another connection between the Chivers bard and myself.  
Prisme had some _new insight_ to offer regarding both Dan and Georges. From what I can gather, Prisme received his jacket from Dan on the eighteenth; he was talking business with Dan when Georges came around the corner, and tried to approach them both, before slinking off; after Dan left, he came back and tried to _buy_ the jacket off Prisme, insulting him when he said no. And as the Chivers bard described him as _a head full of bandages_ , I know for sure it was Georges.  
  
Desperate idiot. Well, Prisme still has his jacket, and I didn't vote Georges in because I admired his _character,_ that's for sure. Something to hang over his head if I don't like the way he's acting at any point.  
I thanked Prisme for the intel and got a promise from him: in exchange for my business, I asked him to look out for Georges and tell me if he sees him doing anything else wayward. That should take care of him for a while, and with any luck, _automatically_ so.  
  
Successful outing. I hope what awaits me indoors is as promising.

 

\-----

 

**[07/31/17]**

Bach accompanied me tonight.  
A wooden stool, strong rubber gloves, a disposable undershirt.  
I shelled out for a hundred-watt bulb days ago. I was ready.

The important thing to remember here is that liquid drains out of your garbage, generally, when you leave it to settle for a while; you will find that the remainder weighs considerably less, and is easier to pack into another bag afterwards. I left the bag intact in my bathtub for most of the morning, and as soon as I returned from my walk, I split the bag in half across the top and let everything fall out the way it was. By the time I considered myself ready, seven o'clock as the sun set and darkness enveloped my house, Dan's secrets lay prepared in front of me.

I left my phone in my room. The record player stayed outside the door. I wanted no interruption.

I had been waiting desperately for this moment.

There were a few extra things I wanted to check for first. Unlike my neighbours, I know that Dan had a sensitive side to offer to the world, and my priority was to see if he'd expressed any more soft feelings lately. I was not disappointed: I opened ibuprofen instructions and several crumpled reciepts before I figured out where the juicy stuff had gone. There were other letters, but this time Dan had taken measures to hide the fact that he had feelings, the paper torn into vertical strips like long ribbons. I plucked some of those ribbons out with my tweezers and set them aside, trying to piece them together once I had enough; a surprisingly easy task, because he wrote on various kinds of paper, never the same colour or background each time. Misplaced variety, a struggle for attention.

 _Well, I'm looking, Danny boy,_ I thought, smiling as I put a section together. _I'm looking._  
Here is what came of the longest section I could find. 

> _[…] hivers are a coping mechanism of a sort; I meant our gatherings to be a place where we can be content, where we can gaze at the outside world with foreign eyes in order to make the most of our lot. A philosophy of reaching ever higher, while smugly knowing there’s nothing higher than us to reach out to. So you must understand that falling in love with you, a frosty young creature from half a world away - was most definitely not in my plans. Yet the best laid plans of mice and men go awry, and increasingly I think to myself: better a life with you in it, Chivers or no Chivers, than a solitary life filled with the empty heights of fashion and teenagehood worship. I am devoted to […]_

And another. This, I actually found intact, a crumpled post-it in the same way he gave me the first letter I read. 

> _Dearest, sweetheart, my blue-eyed darling,_
> 
> _I hunger._
> 
> _I burn._
> 
> _I love._

My God, Dannyboy, I think we share that sentiment.

Putting those slivers of paper aside for the time being, it was time to look through what was _standard:_ the kind of trash that comes with merely living, tissues, cotton wads, kitchen towels, food waste, packaging, that sort of thing. Good news is that I saw some of those pea pods at last.  
And I was right: he _had_ saved them for soup. The pea pods were damp and clinging to the other rubbish around it, clearly boiled and strained out with specks of tomato skins and paprika studded into their limp green bodies. Chunks of pork bone stood out amidst the mess, boiled clean of marrow and blanched a neat grey-white; soaked-and-shredded tea leaves fell from them in clumps, splatting wetly upon orange peel and apple cores and the flat, dry remains of a quiche. A can of diet Coke, crumpled, lay beneath this pile. Nothing in there seemed high in calories or lazily prepared (no frozen meals, no packaged sauces) so I knew Dannyboy was taking _sincere_ care of himself.  
His trash smelled like sour bubblegum. An empty plastic pack of fabric softener was the culprit, mimosa and lavender, its scent helping admirably to cover up the rot and decay. But the best surprise of all came right at the bottom, when I had sifted through most of the rubbish only to come face to face with an _entire,_ untainted-

...

"Why, Danny boy," I whispered, touching the edges of the cake softly. "don't you _like_ carrot cake?"

...

I wish I could have taken a picture. I guess _untainted_ isn't the best description. For you see, Odette had taken such _care_ with it. Cream cheese frosting on top, the faintest dusting of cocoa melted upon it, and along the edges of the frosting the impressions of small marzipan carrots stood out. I say _impressions_ because Dan had picked them off; I didn't find them in the trash, so I can only assume that he ate those. The rest of the cake was _completely_ untouched, not even cut through once, half of it squashed and the frosting peeling off in places. Right on the middle of the white frosting - as well as in between the cracks in the surface that showed through - thin wispy strands of blue mold had settled, each soft tendril faint against the light but tall enough that I knew they'd burrowed right down to the dark, moist, sweet inner depths.

The recording came to an end in the background. I didn't bother with it.  
My phone was buzzing across the hallway. Texts, probably, wondering what I could possibly be up to at home that a milkbar couldn't compete against.  
And oh, the night - the night was so, so blue, I wish everyone could have seen it.

I must have been sitting there for a while. Certainly it was darker than I expected when I finally reached over to switch the light off; I was alone, then, with my gloved hands, the bathtub full of filth, and the painful rejection Odette had never been informed of. The bulb went dark immediately, though I felt a milky halo to linger around the filament for a brief second, and the streetlight outside was the only thing that illuminated my bathroom as I scrutinized the cake in front of me. _He likes carrot cake,_ Odette had said, _and I had some at my place._ I also remember that tight smile on her face, as if this was important information I had no business knowing - or as if she wasn't all that _convinced_ to begin with. For all I know, she meant _she_ liked carrot cake, and she _wanted him_ to like it as well, dreaming of a day when they'd enjoy a slice of it together. Wanting to have her cake, and eat it as well.  
But she still doesn't know, and he doesn't plan to tell her. Dan ate all she had to offer _then_ threw it up; he accepted what she had to offer _then_ threw it away; there's a lot of misfiring going on here, to say the least. And as I carried on looking it felt to me that the mold was _spreading_ in front of my eyes, blue mossflowers blossoming in the feverish height of summer, and I felt a sense of dreadful calm push out the queasy feeling that had long settled in my stomach. Because I got it now. The farce had finally become clear to me.

Dan is taking care of himself.  
Dan has enough on his plate.  
Dan diets. Dan makes his own food. Dan hasn't the space to let _other people's efforts_ creep in.  
It isn't that he ever despised Odette, merely the misunderstandings she simply would or could not fix. It isn't that he ever intended to string her along. In fact, I'm willing to bet that that was why he sought Odette that night, when he ended up on my doorstep and turned my whole world upside down instead.  
He ate her carrot cake obediently. Then he went home, but shortly afterwards, he decided that this was a poor state of affairs. He was going to go back to her house because he was going to look her in the eye, hold her hand, and tell her that _he was sick of eating carrot cake for her sake_ , when it was _her_ who liked it all along with no consideration for himself. And even though it was obvious that he'd taken the wrong turn the moment he saw me, Dan's need to express his sickness was more urgent, more primal, more _desperate_ to him than finding the right person was, and his boredom and his exhaustion came flooding out the moment he opened his mouth in a torrent of chunks and vomit. Had Odette had a chance to look at his trash, even _once..._

... none of this would have happened.

That was the end of it for me. I closed my eyes the moment I flicked the switch, unwilling to let the burst of milky light assault my vision when it'd only just adjusted to the dark. When I could see again, I picked up a brand new trash bag and scooped everything in the bathtub back inside - carrot cake and pea pods and all, the old trash bag crumpled up at the bottom, saving nothing but the letters. This trash I took outside as my own and placed it in the bin, ready to be taken away within a few hours. I'm always generous with the bleach when I clean the bathtub after those sessions, but I felt as if I used two whole bottles just for this one, all windows open and my eyes stinging from the fumes as I scrubbed and mopped every inch of the surface clean. The letters I took pictures of first, before placing the strips in a clear plastic bag; I can't carry them around because of the stench, but I need them as evidence, and until I get to the bottom of this that's as good a place for them as any. It was midnight by the time I was done, and I left the bathroom to air out and threw away my gloves and shirt before sinking onto my blissfully soft bed, eyes sliding shut with exhaustion.

The truth about Dan's love, rejection and proclamation alike, left to rot together.  
The enforced decay of truth. The most postmodern approach possible for things you don't like to acknowledge.  
And I - I am sure I am his blue-eyed darling, there is no other - I don't know whether to be offended by that, or elated, and dear _God_ help me Danny boy, I think it's _both_. Only now do I understand what an exceptional kindness Bernadette did for me; she had a problem with me, _and she directly told me about it,_ even though she did fall into the trap of just ghosting me for a while. Bernadette didn't let the misunderstandings pile up to the point where we loathed each other but carried on like nothing was wrong, out of the fear of spitting it out or the fear we'd be alone; better a demon you know than a freedom you cannot even begin to navigate. Bernadette has never been one for complacency. She knew what was wrong in the way most of us never even considered, which might also help to explain her occasional clashes with the Chivettes, if being unable to explain problems to each other is a constant across both gangs.

And Dan? And me? What's to become of us?

" _Punish him,_ " I whispered, initially galled at the thought that he considered me ( _me!_ ) on par with an unfortunate girl who completely misread Dan in every way possible. But then, I don't think that was either Dan's fault or Odette's; if they need punishing, they don't need it from _me_ , they're driving each other to it already from what I can see. As for the things he wrote for me, I'd have loved to take the Bernadette approach and confront him outright, but the trouble with the Bernadette approach is that you can't be direct about the things you found in someone else's trash. That ship has sailed. She might have taught me an excellent lesson, but I can't follow directly in her footsteps lest I be seen as insane; who knows, maybe I _am_ , if I felt the legitimate need to go this far. Secrets bubble up inside me, stinging my throat and the back of my eyes like fizz too hastily swallowed, and I feel kind of sick. The thought of it makes me laugh a little, but not in a good way.

That poor, _poor_ creature. Poor Dan, with no safe outlet to express himself.  
Poor thing, presiding over the Chivers, watching the symbol of his authentic self-expression fall into itself, other people's habits tearing it apart. Valuing the various things we've to offer - whether it be my argot, Serge's proactiveness, or Bernadette's direct nature - while he himself is locked into the role of leader, everything and yet nothing of any originality demanded of his position.  
I get it now, Danny boy. The Chivers are an image to dominate the _outside_ with. Dressed in the height of fashion, our days sipped away with bottles of pure white, that is how we rise above all: we look and taste good, Danny, all refreshing and sweet like fresh frosting or seafoam, staring serenely beyond this world where nothing's made new nor washed quite clean.  
But the real world gets to you. It finds a way to seep through the cracks and thrust up its blossoms no matter what, as mossflowers always do. It is not the Chivers that fights back against reality, but the reverse. For every expression of our young unreal wishes, every instance in which we laugh and smile and remain natureless in our blind ecstasies, the world throws us a million dark-raftered bars, shadowed alleyways filled with stray cats, and cold meek streams of vomit to consider. The thought of defeating it is nice, but as I've just discovered, _it is not the point._

This is our world and we belong in it. You know it too, Dan, better than anyone else.  
Something as natural as finishing our _Terminale_ year will break the Chivers apart. Isn't that what you fear?

 

What you need is help, Dan, not confrontation.  
Maybe you know it, too, already. Hence all those letters. All your cries for help.

Let me be clear: I can't help you be _authentic_. That's between you and what you believe the world to be.  
But I have heard your call, Danny boy. I have seen the light, my darling. I want to help, and I'm sure that I am the only one who can. I am the only thing you have _honestly_ wanted for yourself in recent times, after all, not for the sake of the Chivers or our overall image.

 

My poor darling, my dearest, honored love of mine.

I'm just sorry it took so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [07/18/17]: Natural breasts are ugly in Steakverse due to the elevation of artifice. It's the first thing Dan (Kavinsky) talks about when he makes his appearance in the film so I thought I'd slip in a comment about it.  
> * [07/20/17, 16:38]: 'Milk' _is 'mleko'_ (млеко) in Serbo-Croatian.  
>  * [07/20/17, 16:54]: Though unknown to Félix at this point, this dude - as seen in [this screenshot](https://s27.postimg.org/3rppakywj/steak.avi_001647239.jpg) from the film - is Georges! Blue Wet Shirt is both a band mentioned in-universe and a track in the _Steak_ soundtrack.  
>  * [07/22/17, 3:34]: This bit originally had emoji. AO3 isn't big on them so had to remove them. The timestamps next to each message replicate iPhone messaging format.  
> * [07/30/17, 13:45]: This actually happened in Belgrade. Boris Johnson was the rich British fucker. He needs to stop being relevant already fucking jesus  
> * [07/30/17, 16:37]: 'Prisme' is the name given to Sébastien Tellier's character in this film. (He's the red sleeveless jacket guy on a wheelchair.) Considering that Tellier wrote 'Divine' and it's a song entirely about praising the Chivers, I came up with the theory that Prisme was watching out for Georges/Blaise for the whole film; I think it possible that he was keeping a sort of lookout for the Chivers, warning them if things looked off, aiding Blaise in his quest for a facelift, and so on. The fact that Prisme and Blaise are both wearing non-Chivers red jackets when they meet is probably also significant because red jackets of that kind appear to indicate _something_ in this universe, but... I might also just be overthinking that one.


	4. File: August 17 [01]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The August chapters together make up the last third of _The Mossflower_ , as Félix's entries become fewer, lengthier, and longer apart. As of the 31st of August this story has been completed, so I'm transferring the relevant entries over to AO3 as well! Please enjoy.

**The Mossflower - File: August 17 [01]  
**

**\--------------------------------------**

**[08/03/17, 16:58]**

I’ve been deep in thought the past few days. Here’s one of them.  
The amount of jewelry people lose in their garbage is _stunning_. I’ve fished out about five earrings and studs already, as well as a silver engagement band, two (titanium?) 10mm labrets, a gold pendant sans chain, and a broken locket. There isn’t much I can do with them - I _could_ pawn off the ring, but I still faintly believe in such things as the value of marriage, so I wouldn’t feel good about it. So they just sit in my room, sparkling clean, beautiful, and utterly useless, my efforts rewarded by kitsch.

~~... Dan wears a ring, but he doesn’t care so much for jewelry.~~  
~~Only Serge does, I think... the bourgeois rat-bastard he is.~~

 

\-----

 

**[08/04/17, 22:33]**

Chivers!

Out for moloshakes with Max. Group text from Dan: Georges has finally been granted his Chivers jacket. Apparently the sooka put it on like without a single minuta to spare, as if he’d been saving his V’s for this moment just about forever. Dan seemed much pleased. Suppose it’s sank Chivers for real, once school begins again.

Max and I raised our bottles to that.  
Three weeks I give Georges; Max says five. He’s too kind. Hope this doesn’t go so spectacularly belly-up that us lilyborn chellovecks end up getting exposed for what we are.

Bernadette texted earlier. Said she wanted to meet up.  
The important thing you need to remember is that despite idolizing Bernadette, I am not very much _like_ Bernadette. This is how I justify ghosting her without any explanation whatsoever. Desolations, milady, desolations - I too like miss your stimming and smecking and all, but at present it is rightways to tend to my fellow Chivers and one Chivers in particular.

~~... It's time I saw Dan in private.~~

 

\-----

 

**[08/05/17, 15:57]**  
  
But speaking of Chivers jackets.  
  
Since figuring out Dan’s deal - or hoping, at least, that I have - I’ve been spending more time thinking about every facet of my nighttime life. I’ve written multiple times on what _role_ being a Chivers serves in our lives, but I’ve never really questioned why... well... why certain things in the Chivers just _are._  
There’s an obvious answer: _Dan’s whims._ Dan structured the Chivers aesthetically as well as in various emotive or literary ways. That answer would have been good enough for me once, but no longer.  
  
Consider my jacket. I have it spread out in front of me now. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, wearing jeans and a shirt with the collar turned up; _checked_ shirt, that is, not white, trying to fight the binary that disturbs me.  
The jacket is largely red. It is very visible. It is very _recognizable_ , to the extent that wearing it around this area instantly grants you certain privileges while barring you from others. The Chivers logo and my name, _Félix_ , is embroidered upon it in the purest white; the sleeves and pockets are highlighted similarly with two white stripes, and midway down the upper left arm a bold _C_ stands out, serving the role of armband and advertisement. This jacket is worn collar turned up, usually, though that’s not a hard-and-fast rule. A white shirt is meant to be worn underneath, though _Max_ was always permitted otherwise; he was always the strongest out of us, the fighter of the group, and Dan ruled that he could take whatever steps he wanted to keep the occasional bloodstains invisible. I thought nothing of this until now, but...  
  
...  
  
There’s a glass of crushed strawberries next to me. I went at them briefly with a mortar before pouring them in. It’s been a month since we let the new milkbar have it, and the deal we had with our milkbar is about to expire; I wanted to do something _meaningful_ with the last of the free moloko in my fridge.  
Gaze into the glass. We all like strawberry milk. There are arguments about coffee, vanilla, soy, almond, chocolate and so on, but none of us Chivers nor Chivettes would turn down strawberry in any variation or form. They are, in other words, an _acceptable_ form of red, in the way Max’s bloodstains aren’t.  
But red is the single clearest signifier of the Chivers, this jacket proves it; shouldn’t we _value_ blood, then, whenever it’s brought to the surface? We cut into our faces and jab needles beneath skin just to prove our beauty; why, then, is blood on clothing unwanted? We’re permitted to carry weapons with the intent of using them, whether they be cricket bats or pocketknives - for God’s sake, we do things that involve _hitting each other_ \- why do we invoke so much blood, then, why do we ask for a blood price just to be _worthy_ of the Chivers, why are our jackets the colour of blood if it’s so inherently _dirty_ to begin with?  
  
Stare into the glass. Pour the milk in. The strawberry juice curdles briefly, then mingles in thickish pink with the liquid. I could stir it all in, but to my experience homemade is never as soft and pink and pretty as commercial variants. The real deal is always fresh - and always, _always_ surprising, with just how imbalanced, how unexpected, how _ugly_ it can be.  
  
Red and white.  
Dangerous and innocent.  
Whore on one end, Madonna on the other.  
My name in white swimming in a sea of blood.  
Stick the straw in, Félix. Now _suck,_ blood and marrow and all.  
  
This is going to be a wild ride.

 

**[08/05/17, 22:59]**

So, uh. This happened: 

> **S:** [ _Grinning wide the instant the door opens._ ] Chivers!
> 
> **F:** ... What the _hell_ are you doing at my house?
> 
> **S:** What, can’t a decent chelloveck just _drop by_ to check up on their friend now and then? [ _Gestures indoors_.] Not up for ittying outways, then?
> 
> **F:** Not tonight. I, ah. [ _Attempts to close door._ ] I’m having dinner. Bye.
> 
> **S:** [ _Pause._ ] Is life treating you all right, Félix?

You have to realize that I had no idea he was nearby. There’s no Chivers tonight; I was going to wait out the evening and then head over to Dan’s, so this interruption was unwanted and utterly unexpected. Us two being alone together never ends up well, so I was going to shut the door on him when he dropped that bombshell on me.

Since when did _Serge_ care about the ins and outs of my life? 

> **F:** Beg pardon?
> 
> **S:** Bleach! [ _Stabs a finger in the air._ ] That’s the first thing I noticed. The air’s thick with it, Félix, I knew it the moment I came here.
> 
> **F:** [ _Inwardly._ ] You sod. You utter scum of the earth. You are little more than a greasyborn loaferson, thou, why I’d buy up all the good etwally moloko our milkbar had to offer for the pure sake of drowning you in it and stealing all your worthless life had to offer, bulging pollypockets and all. [ _Outwardly, smiling_.] You thought _that_ was worth knocking on my door for? Really? Common bleach? What about _your_ house precludes you from cleaning it occasionally?
> 
> **S:** Believe me, my boy, I wouldn’t have made a fuss if it was just your house. [ _Leans in._ ] I smell it off _you_ , too, and have been for the past couple of weeks. You know what I’m like. I wouldn’t miss the smell of a cig from twenty meters away, let alone full-strength bleach off a _beloved_ schoolmate of mine. What are you up to, eh? [ _Grins._ ]
> 
> **F:** Serge.
> 
> **S:** You kill somebody, Félix?
> 
> **F:** _Serge._
> 
> **S:** I mean, maybe they _deserved_ it. It’s not up to me to judge. But if you can’t tell your Deborahs about this then who else would you go to?
> 
> **F:** Serge eat the pills. Talk to the head doctor. He can make the bad people go away.
> 
> **S:** _Félix._

Deep breath. 

> **S:** I’d help you hide it, if that was what was wrong.
> 
> **S:** I doubt it is, but the thing is.
> 
> **S:** You’ve not been yourself.

Then his face dropped, real serious, like there was a slumbering part of him that’d cared all along. 

> **S:** I’m _worried._

Never thought I’d live to see the day.

I just stood there for a long time, trying to figure a way out of this. Now that I’m alone I feel like I should have been _touched_ , but when this was happening I just wanted him to go away and leave me alone with the stuff I was already struggling with. Much as I hate to admit it, Serge being a rat-bastard is somewhat _essential_ to the structure of my world.  
I know it’s breaking apart, but like: one thing at a time, yeah? 

> **F:** Thanks for the concern. [ _Forces smile._ ] My mother hasn’t been home in several days and I’ve taken up cleaning duty, is all. You misinterpreted things, Serge, but I’ve got to be honest; I didn’t think _you’d_ be worried, out of all people. [ _Laughter, significantly less forced._ ] It’s nice to see, actually. The next time I am legitimately in as deep a trouble as you thought I was, I will use my words to debate you _even less_ and will express my angst through increasingly elaborate cave paintings instead.
> 
> **S:**
> 
> **F:**
> 
> **S:**
> 
> **F:** M’Lascaux
> 
> **S:** _You stone-cold son of a bitch._

But then he stepped back, hands in pockets, his eyebrows and the corners of his lips raised just slightly. 

> **S:** Heh.

(I wasn’t lying about Mama, either. I have no idea where she is.  
Methinks she went to claim her independence from me, which I think _eventually_ leaves me in the shit in some sense, but I’m not about to face it this soon.) 

> **S:** Good to see you’re still in there, somewhere. [ _Turns to go_.] ... Come to think of it, you’re the next host for our dinner, aren’t you? If your mom’s not around? It’s been a month since we got together for dinner.
> 
> **F:** I think so.
> 
> **S:** Well. I’ll talk to Dan about it. At least it’d be nice to come around and relax, if your house is _this_ clean. I like Max as much as everyone else, but god damn he needs to wipe his kitchen down with fire. [ _Winks and walks away, calls behind him as he goes._ ] Nighty-night then, lucky boy, don’t let the porte hit you while you crawl back to your hermit cave...

And then he left. Just like that, his truck pulled out of parallel parking within seconds, his arm stuck out in a jaunty wave as he went. Didn’t look back at me even once, apparently his business was satisfied the moment he turned away.  
And as for me, I am stuck writing this down past the time I was meant to go to Dan’s. Good thing he’s not actually _expecting_ me. I still have no idea what to make of the encounter - I will reflect on it as the days go past, I imagine, and I will await the moment Serge becomes a bastard again so that I can conveniently forget that this ever happened -

\- but my God, it is nice to be noticed.  
Especially seeing as I can’t yet be with Danny boy, not this early, not when I am still only a guest to all that he discards.

 

\-----

 

**[08/06/17, 02:45]**

Text from Dan. I was halfway through the newest batch of his trash.  
His words made my heart slow - then stop for one hot, visceral second - then beat _again_ , so fiercely I thought I might throw up.  
_Better a life with you in it and no moloko,_ it read, _over five lifetimes with somebody else bringing it to us._ It was entirely in response to my lament that free moloko was no longer a thing, but the first seven words are the exact ones he used in one of his letters.

Why on _earth_ would you word it like that, if you hadn’t been practicing confessing to me beforehand?  
My God, Danny boy. Sweet creature. You burn me.

 

**[08/06/17, 3:04]**

... I’m going to have to ask Dan out proper, aren’t I?  
Ah, shit. What do I _do_ here? Seize his means of production?

 

**[08/06/17, 15:21]**

Chère Maman,

You remind me of Odette nowadays. You don’t know who Odette is, nor do I think you would care, but you remind me of her all the same.  
Odette's expression is duller in recent times. Once she gazed at the object of her affections all the time, but no longer; now she spends the same amount of effort as before looking _away_ from him. She doesn't know what she did wrong and wouldn't be open to accepting the truth, even if she did.

And I don’t blame her. Because she didn't do _anything_ wrong.

She was just unfortunate.

 

It's important for you to know that. The same applies to you too.

You have been gone for days now, Mama. No more notes on the fridge. You left none on your bed or the kitchen counter or elsewhere, though you’d bought groceries before disappearing. In time I will need to fetch more, though please don’t worry. Money's no issue.  
I cook meals that I like: grilling tender burgers stuffed with cheddar cheese and chives, watching them trail faint smoke into the garden, pouring thick icy milkshakes out of the brand-new blender that only I use. Crinkle-cut fries sizzling fresh out of the fryer. Occasionally even something _homely_ like chicken soup, a fusion cross with egg drop, juicy chicken pieces and onions and rich golden butter beaded against the sides of the bowl. So I’m fine, you see.

And sometimes - if I've had a long day, and I'm not up to cooking and making a decent meal - I will stop by a street food stall. Get myself a hot dog and soda for two-fifty. I will walk down cyan neon alleyways, past the cooling breeze and stray cats and my uncaring fellow men as the fizz stings my throat; the inside of the bun would be feather-soft and the outside very _slightly_ floured and crispy, countering the salt juiciness of the wurst within, and for a single dreamy second I will believe all is right in my life again.

So I'm fine, as I said. I imagine you wanted a break from everything, this house, this neighbourhood, your own son and all.

Please don't let that get to you. I don't blame you at all.

Thing is, Mama, I am very tired. Outside the neighbours rejoice, because they no longer see whoever's been tearing their trash bags apart for the past fortnight. It's only because I moved onto other targets, of course, but I can't let _them_ know that, nor Dan.  
I am tired, Mama, because I don't actually _need_ to dig around in Dan's trash anymore. Once or twice was enough. I saw what I wanted to see and what I saw motivated me to move in a certain direction. And yet I can't stop: rolling up to his house in the dark of night then sitting up to my ankles in my bathtub - the hundred-watt bulb beating harsh red behind my eyelids - a thick pain in my chest like I want to cry out in joy or vomit, all the while _thirsting_ after his shame written on notepaper and crumpled kitchen towels. It’s almost like I believe just _reading_ his words is going to solve all of my problems, instead of confronting him, or making my own interest clear.

If you want to be happy, you can probably make that work.  
But if you want to be _unhappy_ , then my God, nothing in the entire goddamned world can stop you. I realize that now. I too am running away from my problems, Mama; perhaps you’ll be glad to hear that we still have _that_ in common.

 

**[08/06/17, 19:26]**

Look, I know should just suck up and do it already. School begins on the second of September, and then _I’m not going to have time_. I _know_ this. I need to tell Dan when the only obligation I have is to the Chivers and the occasional language class or two. I just don’t know how or when to even s t a r t

 

\-----

 

**[08/07/17, 2:18]**

Do I text or write? Call or visit?  
Chivers gear or ordinary clothes? Tea or chocolate?  
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?  
Do I offer Dan _help_ first - or burning passion, all else be damned?

 

**[08/07/17, 5:42]**

**I DID IT I DID IT SWEET FUCKING JESUS**

The passive-creative approach worked out. It is often true that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach - and who's known around here for providing nourishment to an entire gang? Who do you go to when you need baked goods to melt the heart and soothe the soul?  
Why, your boy Félix of course. I whipped up some chocolate chip cookies real quick, blended a frappuccino with cocoa cream, then put it all in a basket and added a chilled bottle of milk just so there would be _no confusion at all_ as to who'd sent it. Turned out I didn't need the moloko in the end, because I got antsy as I was driving back home after leaving the basket on Dan’s porch so I texted him 'frappuccino on porch' and he texted back 'спаси́бо' and then when he actually opened the door to find not just a frappuccino, but a true _homemade_ blend free of capitalism and topped off with milk and cookies, he texted '!!!!!thank you!!!!!' and h o h my go d my heart is _still **pounding**_

Once that was over I dropped the question.  
I asked for nothing heavy or romantic. Nothing to do with the Chivers - just spending time as ourselves. Building up a _rapport,_ you know?  
He said yes for Wednesday. I'm counting down the hours.

 

**[08/07/17, 7:50]**

...

Mama’s home. She looks all right.  
It’s almost as if she was waiting for me to get a handle on my life.

 

**[08/07/17, 14:30]**

It was just past lunchtime, and the restaurant emptied slow, each patron well fed or swinging brown paper bags back and forth as they left the premises. A cashier on break bustled about the floor, sweeping down each aisle, trailing artificial pine and lemon behind him; reaching past a bakelite booth he shook free a dead geranium and replaced it with a new one in a fresh water glass. Pigeons scuttled outside to peck at a potato chip or a piece of breading. One of them had an exceptionally white tail and rump, the feathers lightly crested behind its head - truly a bourgeois among avians. The sun was high and the sky was blue. Another beautiful day.

It was through this scene that our hero came. His boots clicked on the pavement, scattering pigeons (bourgeois and common alike) as he walked past and pushed the door open. Amidst lingering lazy patrons he went, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he glanced up at the menu; he scanned the leftmost side only once before he peered around the counter, the lovingly embroidered Félix upon his jacket gleaming under fluorescent light.

"Anyone at the till?" He called. A cashier came over immediately. "Two pieces of chicken, please, and uh... small fries... strawberry cream ball... an Orangina... thank you."

A standard transaction. The exchange of currency; the eventual offer of a receipt; then the inevitable question, of course, which hardly ever sounded right to Félix.

_"Sur place ou à emporter?"_

_On site or carried off,_ in other words, in the French mainland; _eat in or take-away_ within the UK; _zum Hieressen oder zum Mitnehmen_ in Germany; all those statements implied in _some_ way that one was taking something of the restaurant’s from them forever. Far too heavy a baggage for a meal. Félix had always preferred the American variant: _for here or to go_ , which possessed all the thrill of being in transit with none of the guilt.

"I'll have it here," he said, and handed over the bill. It crisped neatly in the cashier's hand as he reached to the side; the bill disappeared, replaced by jangling coins, which Félix held his palm out again for. When he next took his hand out of his pocket he would scent copper in the air and think of a single white cube held up high, his hands trembling in anticipation beneath it.  
Golden fries were scooped into cardboard. Félix was given his drink first - he punctured it nonchalantly and sipped away as he waited. Special tongs grasped one of the chicken pieces that had been ordered and set them down on the prepared tray, and when the cashier caught Félix’s eye he made the next one a _thigh_ piece, indicating either interest or flattery (he really couldn’t tell). With a thanks Félix took up the tray and seated himself at a window table, brushing his windswept hair past his eyes as he contemplated his food.

It wasn’t very much like him to do this. No use in beating about the bush - Félix was in a KFC that looked just like any other, and the meal he was about to have was no different to the one countless people had around the world every day.  
But to that he had just one thing to say: _screw it all._ It was a _shared experience_. Who didn’t want to be part of something so common, so beloved, so _universal_ now and then?

He picked up a fry and nibbled at the end, exhaling quickly as his teeth tore at the starched exterior and exposed the tender insides. That fry disappeared quickly into his mouth, followed by several more. The fries were fresh and crisp and blissfully unsalted, the thinnest spread remainder of fat around the edges providing all the flavour Félix possibly could ask for. He paused halfway for a sip of Orangina, the citrus cleansing his palate, before he picked up a chicken piece.

Leg, as per usual. There was always a leg piece _somewhere_ in all those meals one ordered, without fail. Félix closed his eyes and sighed quietly, almost looking as if he wanted to say grace, before he abruptly _bit_ into the piece and _tore_ a chunk out of it with his teeth. Salt and spice and everything nice flooded his head, he felt his breath stall at the sheer heat of it. The breading crackled at the touch but was curiously _pliable_ beneath his hands, separating from the flesh and bone in long golden strips as Félix pulled them apart nice and slow; he pulled the breading apart from _both_ pieces and ate them first, rolled tightly into one blissful bite, crispy, chewy, and yet still soft at the center. When Félix licked his fingers he could still taste the thick savory juices that’d dripped from the coating, the inside of his knuckles sticky with it. He couldn’t get enough of it, and he moaned quietly, _excitable defeat_ stirring inside him.  
And how good the chicken was underneath, too! Small translucent domes of fat stood out upon the meat’s surface, just barely managing to retain corporeal form before quickly dissolving upon Félix’s tongue. In other KFC outlets the chicken was often dry underneath, but there was none of that here, every inch and nub buttery and succulent beyond his wildest imaginings. It was all over before Félix knew it, and regret lingered briefly inside him as he downed the rest of his drink to finish, the salty, peppery, spicy, savoury alike cut just right by the sour-and-sweet of the Orangina.

Once he was done, he had to take a break. Félix sagged back on the bench, wiping mindlessly at his oil-glossed mouth with a tissue; his right hand was considerably cleaner than the left, and he reached over with it awkwardly to fish out a piece of paper from his left-hand pocket, unfurling it on the laminate surface. It was a letter. Nothing special was written upon it, only the recollection of a day out in Montmartre, culminating with a brief account of a KFC visit and best wishes to the receiver. Félix had not received this letter through ordinary means, of course, in fact the letter had never been sent to begin with - but he’d found it in the latest batch of all that his beloved had discarded from his home and that was _quite_ good enough. Because it had been atop all the other trash, it was completely unstained and unharmed, too, which made it all the easier for Félix to carry it around like some kind of motivational talisman.

“It won’t be long,” Félix whispered, his breath having returned by then. The ice cream he’d set aside was melting. He took up the white plastic spoon to start on it, and while he was at it, decided to check the time on his phone.  
The lockscreen was of a boy - dressed similarly to him, but brown-haired and brown-eyed and sweetly smirking - and Félix’s gaze rested on the picture for longer than was strictly necessary. Nearly a year it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath those lush caramel locks. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two strawberry-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Danny.

 

\-----

 

**[08/08/17, 2:26]**

Chivers!

Nothing yet regarding rapport, alas; Félix is taking a molopause out by the gruzoviki, which is bad gnocchi business but better some rest than none. _Ô Félix, tu es la plus malheureuse personne du monde._  
As I sit myself down with my argot, making it leer real jolly, I think of the _raw power_ words have: like how in the English language, the phrase _'I'm gay'_ can fluster almost anybody from etwally bourgeois to power-tripping badmuffs to otherwise perfectly stable seetoyans. [1] Wonder if Dannyboy would appreciate that discussion.

\----------

**1.** Source: me, who is very gay, but who also becomes flustered when someone points it out. [2]  
**2.** Don't do it. [3]  
**3.** D-don't.

 

**[08/08/17, 20:03]**

Intel from Prisme. _Georges has a friend_ , he says, _a friend who was on the national news for murder once._ No comment for whether this friend was _threatening_ anybody, or what he was like (apart from _clueless_ ) - but Prisme did tell me to watch out for him.

Can’t say I’m too worried, if this friend meets Georges’ standards.  
Or maybe that’s excitement bleeding through, seeing as tomorrow Dan and I are spending time together; even if anything wild happens, we’ll be away from it. What’s the worst that could happen?

 

\-----

 

**[08/10/17, 1:18]**

oh fuck _fuck fu **c k kkkkk**_ **i thinnk we jsut _killed_ georges;/;’/;**

 

**[08/10/17, 1:33]**

this was not in _anyone's_ plan dannyboy and i were meant to be _away_ from all of this this was never meant to happen abort abort **this was _NOT PART OF THE PLAN_**

 

**[08/10/17, 2:36]**

WOULDN'T IT BE NICE TO BE DELUSIONAL? I THINK I AM DELUSIONAL. I HOPE I AM DELUSIONAL. GRAB THE STEERING WHEEL FROM ME DANNY BOY SLAM ON THE BRAKES AND SIP THAT MOLOKO BABY AND DON'T EVEN FUCKING TALK TO ME I THINK I'M GETTING PARANOID. WE CANNOT BE HELPED AND THIS IS HOW IT IS. THIS IS HOW IT'S ALWAYS GOING TO BE. NONE OF THIS EVER HAPPENED. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL. THIS ISN'T REAL THIS ISN'T REAL THIS ISN'T REAL THIS ISN'T REAL THIS ISN'T REAL THIS ISN'T R

 

\-----

 

**[08/12/17, 17:45]**

Just last night I wrote three confessions about what happened.  
Just last night I tore them all up, shredding them into confetti, then pulping them in water so that no one could put them together again. All I've got to show for the past few days is my neverending unease and the three-page lacuna before this entry; I have to keep calm, take a sip of the moloko (why do I never take my own advice), and try to make sense of it all.

It's actually not that complicated, I think.

...

I just... I get _frightened._

 

**[08/12/17, 20:09]**

Turns out it wasn't Georges' _friend_ that we had to worry about.  
We did see the friend briefly, but - nobody compared to Georges.

I could take this in all directions. _I always knew Georges was a bad egg_ , and all that. Character assassinate him in private. Wax lyrical on Chivers values, as well as how spectacularly he sent them down in flames within about _twenty-four_ hours of being a Chivers proper. But if I'm honest, I don't think that's the most important thing we're struggling with here.

And yes. _We._  
No, Georges is not dead. The Chivettes drove around to check mere hours after we left him in the car park, and he wasn't there, although his truck was. Not like he could have moved it anyway; Serge was _very_ efficient with his pocketknife, after all, in one of the only true highlights of the evening. No patient resembling Georges was admitted to emergency services in the past two days, either, as far as we know.  
He's out. So are we, kind of. All of us. Totally out of it. For different reasons, as well, which is very frustrating as we can't agree on what we need to do.

Personally, though, _I'm_ upset our day out got delayed.

Here’s the thing about Dan. He's an _awful_ communicator.  
I don't think I realized just how bad it was until I woke up on Wednesday morning to a text from him. _Georges joins us today_ , it read, and I tell you - it was the most _bastardly_ thing to have read when we'd made plans to go somewhere immediately after classes. I'd been under the impression he was to join us in _September_ , not during summer classes, and I said as much.

~~Not via text, either, like some kind of coward. Via _call._~~

"It's good practice for him," was what he had to say about it. "Chivers must look after their own."

"Chivers must look after their _established_ own," I said. "we made an _agreement_ , Danny boy."

"New isn't mutually exclusive with established. Just one day a week, please, Félix my boy. One day a week until September. He needs to be _trialed_ before we can make sure he's worth defending."

Later I would find out that this was a valid motivation, but back then, I was sure that he'd convinced himself that was true in order to avoid the consequences of his own actions. He was outdoors. The wind was blowing very, _very_ hard in the background, rustling static cutting through every fourth word like the woods were falling all around him. It'd have been scenic if I wasn't so pissed off, like I could see him just standing there biting his lip with his favourite milk bitch on the line, staring at the half-sheared wreckage of his prized leadership and thinking: _I know it's bad to lie to your crush, but_

 

_if I lied just this once to my crush_

 

_then I could salvage this._

 

Go take care of the rookie.  
Who cares?  
I'll survive.

But hey, I'm a hypocrite. _Dan_ isn't the one digging through other people's rubbish like some lovesick raccoon during summertide. If he's a liar, so am I. We _all_ are to some extent, like fuck you if you don't feel like a giant neurotic imposter faking your way through every human interaction always and forever.  
How co-dependent would _I_ have had to remain visibly salty over the thought of spending a few more days without Dan on my arm? So I assented. Didn't like the thought, but it sure wasn't up to me to gatekeep either when Georges got his shit together or done fucked up.

And oh boy did he fuck up. I almost feel bad for the rat-bastard.  
Georges should take _that_ away from the experience, at least. He ought to be honoured. I never felt this way with Serge despite hating his entire existence, but then I never milkboarded Serge with all the moloko in my possession either. I often wondered if I should have, but am now glad that I saved it for that night.

 

Dan was very touchy with me.

I think he was trying to make up for the lack of a date. Don't know if I appreciated it overmuch because he always brought me pain before the pat on the back, the hug, the smile of utter pride: talking about his landing a pair of naturals from some girl I'll never know about _immediately_ after bidding me Chivers, forgiving my bobbled jacket (it was not _your_ fault, Mama, pardon me; I am too terse with laundry nowadays) when no one would have noticed if not for his pointing it out in the first place, holding me close with an arm during Bleue. He smelled _lovely_ , a cologne reserved for going out from what I could tell, a sign of his life having been interrupted as rudely as he did mine.  
It's kind of frustrating, how close he is always to giving me what I want, while never quite managing to do so. Glad to say that around the third bottle of moloko, I was starting to genuinely not care. Bernadette seemed open to attention so I kissed her during class some, knowing Dan was going to hear the sounds, and it was her I stood with after we all made it to the milkbar. Georges was there for all of that. He'd left his bandages off by the evening, and he was brand new, glowing with radiance. He was a rookie. He was inexperienced. He is also _not_ a Chivers now, by virtue of being a terrible human being (commenting on my _beautiful_ chin, the nerve!) as well as a man of questionable common sense.

What a complete waste of a facelift. I am honestly astounded. I thought he might fail from difficulties _adjusting,_ not a blatant willingness to lie on the first day of his initiation.

He smoked, you see. He smoked and then paraded it around Serge.  
Serge, who can smell a cigarette from twenty meters away. It was Serge who dragged him outside and threw him to the dirt, Serge who fished out the dreaded packet trailing cigarettes to the ground, Serge who put to words first what we were all thinking: _a traitor._  
I glanced at Dan was the verdict was given. I think something in him died. In that instant I felt a rush of pure, blind _rage_ towards Georges, a rage which blended in excellently with the others despite having nothing to do with the cigarettes or Chivers morals whatsoever; Dan would never have had to see something like this if we’d had just gone out on that date after school. Serge would have ratted Georges out within hours. Him and Max would have done a number on him and kicked him off the gang. Dan didn’t need to see his leadership torn down over nothing. And as much as his terrible life choices anger me, nobody _ever_ rags on or kills Dannyboy except for me, either. _It is not the done thing._

_“Punish him,”_ I whispered. Max nodded next to me, his legs swiftly carrying him towards the mess.  
_“Chainsmoker! Disgusting scum!”_ Dan’s voice rose high in the air first, joined by all of ours as we kicked Georges into the ground; I’ve never been sturdy enough to kick or punch someone for long, and the moment I saw first blood shed from his lip I knew I had to do something to establish my presence. Opening my milkbottle, I upended the entire thing on Georges’ face, blood mixing with the moloko and grainy asphalt into red, to white, to swirled moss and dirt. Dan laughed at that and I did the same, the sound sticking hysterical in the back of my throat, the milkbottle falling from my hand to roll across the disabled parking lot mere feet away as the Chivettes watched, bemused, in the distance.

Remember the Chivettes don’t interfere with Chivers politics.  
I’m fucking glad they did _this_ time. If not for Odette crying out that we had to bail, we might not have stopped. It was her voice that gave all of us pause and had us looking down at what we’d done, and I was so sure that we had killed him that I just made for my own truck, dragging Dannyboy along. Serge cut Georges’ tires so that he couldn’t follow and then we _got the hell out of dodge_ , which is a phrase you will have to forgive me for saying but it is the only one that fits.

...

Rest of Wednesday night’s a blur. Bleue the day after was also a blur.  
Lived up to its name more than before, I guess. I don’t even know why we decided to willingly injure ourselves two days in a row, maybe we thought we needed to punish each other. Penitence for, you know. Killing Georges. Even rat-bastards need dignity. But me, I guess I just wanted some _sense_ knocked into me before I started thinking about more complicated things.

Oh, Danny boy. I fucking adore that vain overly-trusting idiot. I want nothing more than to love his goddamned head under the water until the bubbles stop.  
Date’s rescheduled for Monday. No bullshit this time. No school, either. Just the two of us ruminating on our mistakes, and hopefully, the issue with Georges will blow over.

 

\-----

 

**[08/13/17, 15:29]**

Scenes during Thursday's Bleue, while I remember.

  * The Chivettes showed up.
  * The Chivettes _never_ partake in Bleue, like how the Chivers _never_ partake in Frais. Never, except for that day. So I guess Thursday's game passed less for Bleue than it did for an _emergency gang meet._
  * Didn’t get much discussed, however.
  * I _thought_ I had enough moloko for everyone but no such chance. Never seen milkbottles being downed that fast. And of course it's the milk bitch's fault for not having enough milk, not that we suddenly have a lot more people than the norm.
  * Thankfully they didn't nag hard. Worse things to worry about.
  * (Wondering if Serge is able to feel such a thing as remorse.)
  * Snippet of a Frais session overheard while batting:  
**L:** ... so I got off the tram in Warsaw and 'Kurwa!' was the first word I heard being shouted randomly into the air, which set the tone for the rest of _that_ trip.  
**B:** It wasn't random. They saw you.
  * Pain. Blissful, sometimes. Bullshit, often.
  * Probably because Dan seemed kind of out of it. As I said before, we all were, but it was very visible in him.
  * Another snippet:  
**I:** But that's _basically_ my point! Plenty of people our age can keep a job, pay their bills, and contribute to society! They don't need to go to university and undergo the full ‘ _fuck the pain away: the academic package_ ’ in order to be smart and hardworking. _They_ don't whine about socioeconomic injustice with their friends.  
**O:** You must not be one of them, because _you’re_ whining about socioeconomic injustice with your friends.
  * (How _do_ those ladies survive ten minutes of each other?)
  * After two rounds Odette came to thank us. That’s right, for keeping Georges away. “Thanks to you we won’t need to introduce a fifth Chivette,” she said, “just the way we wanted.”  
Serge was about to say that _he_ didn’t see the problem with a fifth; I nudged him, though nothing more, to make him shut up. I don’t think the Chivettes approve hugely of Bleue or Dan’s conduct at the moment, but they held so steadfast in their structure through all of this chaos that I think we have to hand it to the ladies here.
  * (Plus he never actually got with Inès, so. Heh. Loser.)



After Bleue, I came home to an empty kitchen with a freshly-made pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove. Bless Mama for understanding, even though I secretly hope that she never understands.  
The baguette I bought on the twenty-eighth was still on the counter. It’s still there. It’s about ten minutes of sunlight away from taking the next geological step into oblivion. Very light, but so hard that I can’t leave a single scratch on the surface, its cut surface yellowed and sandy to the touch.

The things that fall apart are never the things you want them to.

 

**[08/13/17, 18:29]**

**Voicemail 01 - 5:56pm**

> **D:** Félix.
> 
> **D:** ...
> 
> **D:** Thanks again for the encouragement. You know, after Bleue. Sometimes I felt like you were going to claw the daylights out of my hand, but I guess I kind of deserved that. Hell, that night with Georges - I'd ordered me a magnum from the milkbar earlier and I was tweaking out so _badly,_ if you hadn't held my hand to get me out I think we'd have been in so much trouble. The kind Chivers honour means nothing against. I hope you've rested up since...
> 
> **D:** That night. Let's just forget about it. Do nice things.
> 
> **D:** ... Yeah.
> 
> **D:** There's somewhere I want to take you to while we're out tomorrow. Meet me at ten. I'll be there, I promise.
> 
> **D:** Until then.

I’m goddamned terrified now

 

\-----

 

**[08/14/17, 20:32]**

We met at ten today, as arranged.  
I'm not sure it is _not_ still ten. I feel in the middle of a very, _very_ long dream - that sunlight is tickling at my fingertips, but _only_ my fingertips, so that nothing compels me to open my eyes and watch the dust motes dance gold and silver in the air. As I write this I keep glancing down at my left hand, flexing the fingers twice and rubbing my thumb over each fingertip, fancying that I might recall at any moment Dan's heat against them.

I met him at the Métro station. I'd requested to do away with all Chivers gear the first time, he'd ruminated over it so long that I _still_ don't know what he thought of it by Wednesday morning; the second time I asked, he agreed straight away, not wanting to be recognized around the city. He asked in turn that we not drive for the day out, which was no problem for me. Save for that time in his garden, the last time I had seen him out of Chivers clothes had been _months_ ago - I was hardly about to tell him I snooped on him shelling peas, either - and judging from the surprised look on his face, I think he felt the same unfamiliarity about me.

"Looking good, lucky boy," he said in lieu of a greeting. It took me a surprising amount of effort to tell him thanks, not because I didn't appreciate the compliment but because the tell-tale _Chivers_ hovered constantly at the tip of my tongue. "grab lunch after?"

"Sure. Where are we going?"

He had half-gloves on. Palm cool, fingers warm and tight on mine.

"You'll see. Come on. My treat."

In the Palais de la Porte Dorée lies an aquarium. If you're a newcomer to Paris, it probably won't be one of the first aquariums that would come to mind. It certainly didn't for me, at least until Dan took me there. Because it was Monday there was no queue and only a few people were about; Dan paid for both of us and we went in, past the portico flanked by a curious mixture of slender marble columns and iron railings, the afternoon grandeur of the hall disappearing behind us as we held our breath and entered the deep cool darkness.

I am always disoriented in aquariums. So _much_ is going on, and yet all of it such a low volume, that whichever part of me that tells me to react to a ripple here or a swish there never triggers in time.  
It was Dan who placed me back into context. "Look," he said gently as we passed the first tank; I squeezed his hand in thanks before letting go, because I didn't want to seem too needy in front of him. Before us a spray of tropical fish passed us by, swirling like a treasure trove poured into the deep lonely sea: sabertooth blennies flicked sapphire-lined glints against mossy rocks, the gold-and-silver scales of countless fish blending neatly amidst them in waves, before psychopomp angelfish scattered them about.  
The aquarium was sparsely lit, greens and purples and blues all over, illuminating our cheeks in unfamiliar shades. I would not say that the fish were similarly colourful, though they remained just as unfamiliar - the only fish we found resembling Chivers colours was a ragged pile of fins and wavy flesh, the non-humble scorpionfish - and I gazed at them for a long time, fascinated at (or in spite of) their radicality.

 

The Chivers don't like messes.  
Dan found starfish you were allowed to touch. His tanned wrist glided effortlessly through the water, cupping its glint for a second as he tested the temperature, and I watched as one finger stroked down a smooth brittle leg.  
Fluorescence trembled in his palm as he withdrew, and he shook the water off his hand with a wink before taking lead. The water had soaked his beige sleeve yellow like curdled milk.

 

The purple light did incredible justice to his hair.  
It balanced out the brown. Lent his hair a silvery sheen I'd never seen before. A lady walked past, leaving the delicate afterhints of lily of the valley. Halfway through our tour, Dan produced an MP3 player and a headphone splitter from his pocket, bidding that I stay _very_ close to him while he put on some _enjoyable background music_ to add to the experience.

 

"Dan," I whispered in the silence. Pale arawana like half-moon submerged glided smoothly past us. "is there something you’re not telling us?”

Carefully constructed sentence, a mastery of dialogue: well, hardly, but it was the kindest way I could think to phrase it. _Us,_ to add or excuse himself with the Chivers when he answered; open question, so that he could answer with anything in his mind, anything at all, even a simple yes or no as long as he said something. He glanced at me, and smiled - sadly, I believe, not what I'd expected at all.

"You ever been to an aquarium at night?"

I shook my head. Didn't know you could do that. "I didn't know, either, until a friend I had let me in while his dad worked overnight. That was before I moved here," he beckoned me to sit. "before I came to the school. It was a bizarre experience. I can't quite describe it, but-"

Disturbance in the tank before us. A polka-dot stingray was frantically digging itself out of the sand. Dan let out a small chuckle and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. "I went inside, and I sat down in the dark - nothing but the fish and those lights for company. Nothing but the sound of water. Once or twice a shark's belly passed beyond the glass. I remember it was pale. And I closed my eyes - didn't even look around, because I wanted to take the mood in first - and I had the feeling that the ground was _breaking up_ around me, breaking away in small cracks beneath my feet, while something _crawled up_ the open spaces and filled the space by where I was sitting. And in the darkness, I felt like that something... the thing that had crawled past the bench, my feet, my _legs_... that _something_ was raging about, like a lump of cold blue air, invisible to the eye but bringing with it such a chill you couldn't miss it."

"I wanted to know if the fish felt it too. I opened my eyes and stared ahead and I saw _absolutely nothing_ \- not the shark, not the hundreds of other fish that were in there, not even bottom-dwelling flatfish like that one over there. (Pointing to the stingray.) Just layers of rock, sand, and weeds waving in the endless blue expanse."

"..."

"So, _so_ blue, Félix. Not the kind of blue that comes with sunny days and fluffy clouds, but such a deep blue - as deep, dark, and as solid as death that I couldn't even breathe. Nothing made sense in it, Félix. I was looking into a world where rules didn't apply. Some people actually have to get hurt to feel it, but me - yes, that's right, I sat there and saw the place we _all_ eventually end up in some day or the other."

Flashes of midnight runs, decaying garbage leaking water around the bag.  
Streetlights. Fluorescent. Orange out there, purples and greens and blues in here.  
Life preserved behind glass, until someone stumbles in to poke at them. Lives preserved behind doors, soft and clean and _all ours_ , until someone turns up on the porch to vomit all over it.

"... Danny."

"Mm."

"What then?"

He shrugged. "I left immediately after that. Couldn't sleep with the lights out for a month, and then... then I came here, where nobody knew me at all, let alone know that I'd had a freakout at an aquarium. _Less bitching,_ I thought then, _and more enriching_ \- _no more dark blue hell,_ I thought, _I only want to see bright things from now on._ So you see," he patted over his jacket (red and beige) and the shirt beneath (light grey). "even if not Chivers... I want to keep things _positive._ Have lots of people to feel with, even if I'm not always happy. Set rules so I understand what it means for anything to be _disordered_ , and can do something to put it right, if I can. Maybe it's just coping, but it's a hell of a sight better than doing nothing in the face of chaos."

... Oh, Danny boy. You are so brave to be so dishonestful with me.  
What I get from the beauty of your words and the intense look in your eyes is that you're doing the _opposite_ of coping. You _do_ things, yes, but you throw them away after or make such a spectacular mess of it that everything becomes chaos anyway, except that it's not just _you_ dealing with it after that.  
I am lost in a sea of words that foam about me like bubbles, each one slipping inches from my grasp, an intense sadness welling in my heart for I can only watch what is rightful. Some things aren't meant to be clung onto, after all.

 

 

Cake afterwards. Standard vanilla sponge for him, with royal icing, clean and white and pretty exactly as he wanted. He fed me a piece and it tasted of barley sugar and ashes.  
We were together for quite a while. His hand was still visible above the crowd, waving me faint goodbye, as I turned left past the ticket gates at ten to four.

I have seen into night and I am hungry for more.

 

\-----

 

**[08/15/17, 3:04]**

Coming home from the milkbar I bend over and retch into the street. Five bottles of pure white moloko flushing out five hours of plainclothes life, no Chivers nor a jacket nor bundles of Swedish fish to protect me; five bottles of moloko and a sixth in my hand, tipping over hard white on hard black, mixing blues and purples and greens out of my belly as well as in it.  
Empty alleyway into nowhere. My house isn't even in this direction. Condensation on a dusty windowpane, my flailing fingers painting five twisting arcs onto inky darkness. Sweet metal in my throat, iron _deep_ in my nostrils, drips of _pink_ added onto the palette underfoot. I am still in aquarium clothes, its unlit serene anticipation soaked into the fabric, but my hands are pale as well as the moloko still sloshing in this bottle; if I'd peeled my own skin off I fancy some sparkling alloy will appear, then I could _justify_ feeling this way, unfeeling steel instead of blood iron.  
Chivers must be perfect inside and out, they say. But we all know nobody's perfect inside; hell, we're not even all that _different_ inside, all skin and bones and pulsing veins, certainly not different enough to apply ideals of perfection to it. I shan’t be steel, milk will never come out as pure white as I drank it, and the blood in my throat will still come out swirled pink no matter what I do. The moment it comes out and paints everything red, red, _proper_ red, I am in _big trouble_ , I should not dare to want such a thing.

One more bag, Danny boy. One more bag with one more letter in it.  
I will open one more bag and I will _stop this._ I _promise_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [08/05/17, 15:57]: The basic Chivers ideal appears to be as described in this entry; blue jeans, white shirt, red jacket. Max is the exception to begin with, as his shirt is dark at the start; Félix is the only person whose shirts get _darker_ throughout the course of the film, however, as Max lightens up at the end.   
>  * [08/05/17, 22:59]: Serge canonically has a very sensitive nose. This is a plot point twice in the film, both times alerting him to Georges's cigarette smoke. I figured he should be sensitive to other chemicals, too.  
> * [08/07/17, 2:18]: The third line is a reference to T. S. Eliot's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_.  
>  * [08/07/17, 14:30]: You can tell _someone_ had KFC while writing this...  
>  * [08/08/17, 20:03]: This friend is Blaise/Chuck, the protagonist of _Steak_ \- at last!


	5. File: August 17 [02]

**The Mossflower - File: August 17 [02]**

\--------------------------------------

**[08/15/17, 15:47]**

~~Dear diary, today I~~

~~Chivers!~~

~~So I think~~

~~Cher journal, j’était~~

~~Dan~~

~~Rice (500g)~~  
~~Double cream~~  
~~Eggs x 12~~

~~specimen dx shelled peapods head and shoulders shampoo lid grocery post-its tea coffee consumables no letter no note no news nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing~~

why the fuck am i writing on odd dates?  
why did i _ever_ write during odd dates?  
~~because dan came around /~~  
~~because dan was dumb /~~  
~~because dan kept me intrigued~~

oh danny danny **_danny_ boy it is not the _pipes_ that are calling**

 

\-----

 

**[08/16/17, 19:19]**

Georges was nowhere to be found in classes yesterday.  
Figures. Thing is, _we're_ slacking off today, Dan and I, so I’m not sure whether he’s come by, nor whether I should feel relieved about closing this chapter of our lives.

Forty texts on Dan’s phone, thirty on mine, last time we checked.  
We haven’t bothered looking through them. Dan was waiting for me outside of my house this morning when I came out, keys hanging from a loose fist, ready to leave for school. “There you are,” he said, and took me by my free hand. “I haven’t been able to take my mind off us since we went out on Sunday. So what do you say, lucky boy, let’s go for a drive.”

I blinked. “What about classes?”

“What about everyone _else_ who didn’t attend a single summer class?”

“What about the Chivers?”

“They’ll be fine without us. Come on, Félix.”

And that made me nervous as hell because out of everyone I know, I wouldn’t have thought of Dan as someone who’d blow off the Chivers like that. Nevertheless, sue me: I was tempted. “Where to?”

He smiled. Dan has a brilliant one, which I suspect is why I like talking about it.  
I always knew it, but I don’t think I examined that belief until he started directing them exclusively at me.

“Anywhere.”

So anywhere, we went. No palaces today, no large recognizable places, but many bridges and unknown paths we explored one after the other. Instead of darkness and fluorescence we had sunlight, the skies a cool milky blue, and oh - how we laughed, jackets tied around waists, I think this date was much more wholesome than the other one, though I learned less; when it comes down to it, though, I was appreciative. Dates are just as much about _enjoying yourself_ as it is learning the finer points of your partner. Is that right? I think that’s right.

Like this fine point, for example:  
‘In the Air Tonight’ was playing on the stereo when we were coming back. I waited for Dannyboy to turn it off, but he didn’t; in fact, he was bopping away, so into it that I just about thought I’d hallucinated the day away. “Why, Danny,” I said. “Phil Collins?”

He seemed puzzled until I reminded him of Georges, and the only session of Bleue we ever played with him. “ _Last one there’s a fan of Phil Collins_ \- yeah, that’s a good one, wherever you go,” he laughed, tanned fingers gleaming handsomely under the sun. “but I never actually _said_ what was so bad about being a fan of Phil Collins, did I? Could have been a _compliment_ for all Georges knew, not that he took it that way.”

Nor did _we_. Are you fucking about with us, Danny boy?  
I asked him as much, except in nicer tones, and he shook his head. “I’m as strongly opinionated as it gets, Félix, but I just don’t have _that_ much of an opinion on Phil Collins,” he said as the song ended, and he switched stations before another could come on. “and I was being honest about that. The only condition I talked about was that the last one to get there was a fan of Phil Collins, implying: _not anyone else._ That part might have been inaccurate, maybe Max or Serge is. Maybe _you’re_ a latent fan to come in the next thirty years,” (I opened my mouth to protest.) “you take from a statement like that whatever you choose to get, in the same way you _don’t_ take a statement like _you’re not fucking allowed to smoke_ as a green light to smoke. Shame _that_ was the thing that finally got me to realize how bad Georges’ critical thinking skills are.”

Dear God.

 

**[08/16/17, 19:28]**

On the other hand he _did_ buy me some excellent butter waffle candies and we are currently sitting on his truck to bask in the last of the sun so maybe I should go a lot easier on the guy

~~Look you have to be _thorough_ when you check for like.~~  
~~_Prospective mates._ Okay??~~

 

\-----

 

**[08/18/17, 11:28]**

**Specimen FX [Predicted]:**

\- Tissues (10%)  
\- Clingfilm  
\- Tinfoil  
\- Kitchen towel (5%)  
\- Rotisserie chicken carcass x 2  
\- Artichoke leaves  
\- Toothpicks x 30  
\- Napkins x 16  
\- Minced pork containers x 3  
\- Minced lamb containers x 2  
\- Minced beef containers x 2  
\- Unsmoked back bacon packaging x 3  
\- Flatbread packaging x 4  
\- Sour cream container x 2  
\- Onion peel  
\- Garlic peel  
\- Carrot peel  
\- Jalapeno seeds  
\- Cardboard support beneath lemon cheesecake box x 1  
\- Lemon cheesecake box x 1  
\- Milk bottle x ∞  
\- Red wine bottle x 1  
\- Wine cork x 1  
\- Plastic packaging from stereo

**Notes:** Finally, finally, _finally_ my turn to host my Deborahs for the night; Max was afraid the tradition was going to die out with him. Everyone is invited, Chivers and Chivettes. I feel sweet melancholy thinking of them all.

I think this is the only way I can do grocery lists now.  
It's all the same anyway, garbage in and garbage out.

 

**[08/18/17, 12:41]**

Oh yeah I totally bought a stereo. I want to call it a _communal_ stereo for all of our sakes - there's a meet-up at Odette's cabin towards the end of the summer holidays that I want to take it to - but for now, it's all mine. The Chivers bard's music goes on it, as well as Todd Rundgren's _Something / Anything_ and Phil Collins's _Face Value_. I plan to put the Phil Collins on only when everyone's been doused with the good old moloko-plus, see if anybody comments on it. If nobody cares, _I'm_ paranoid and over-competitive and have a weird idea of the influence Dan is allowed to have in my life; if everyone calls me a degenerate, then well, I guess I'm not crazy.  
Serge might be furious regardless. Egg will surely be on his face.

 

**[08/18/17, 14:37]**

Bernadette's here. I didn't ask for help, but she came by anyway with lemonade, a blender, and an icebox full of frozen ice trays. "So," was how she went about it, clapping her hands the moment I'd let her in and she'd put everything down. "what is it that you're making, Felix, and do you need a spare hand? Or should I just pay you in moloshakes for the delicious feast I'm sure you're making?"

Good old Bernadette. It really is a shame we let each other go. I certainly never had to rummage around in trash cans and _beg_ for dates and do everything short of outright _forensics_ just for an inkling of what she truly felt about me.  
But on the other hand, the chase has been thrilling, and I've learnt so much about myself pursuing Dan that I'm not sure _Bernadette_ would have helped with. I know far more about what I deserve in regards to him. I don't think so much in terms of whether the _best thing that could have happened_ has happened, but that _we_ made the best of _whatever happened;_ a moloshake it was, yes, and I recruited her for some ćevapčići making after.

Minty green it was. The moloshake I mean, not the meat.  
She put in two squares of milk chocolate when she blended it and it improved the mintiness beautifully. Then we washed our hands and got to mixing everything together, myself having prepped all the onion and garlic whatnot before she knocked on the door. When the garlic ran out she just grabbed the knife and the honing steel and minced some more. Comfortable silence, kind of like cooking with my mother, except that existing alongside Bernadette doesn't make me sad.

Ćevapčići are very simple to make. Mix meat and ingredients together, shape, then grill. Naturally we didn't take long. We stuck them in the fridge with wax paper between them to let them marinate through, then we washed our hands and sat on the porch to drink our shakes. "Félix," she said.

"Mhm?"

"I'm happy to see you like this."

Considering I've been feeling all sorts of ups and downs lately, I didn't know how to react to that. "You are?"

She tapped her nails against her glass. "You're shaping up to be something else," she said, and turned to pat my shoulder. "it makes me happy, but a bit sad, too. But maybe that's a good sign."

Pause. "Remember what I said to you about self-respect?"

I shrugged in an aw-shucks gesture, except nobody describes it like that anymore. "Yeah. And hey, you were right-"

Bernadette shook her head. " _Were,_ once. You don't need to keep it in mind anymore. Whatever you did to Dan, you seem like you're more on equal footing with him than before - and even aside from that, you're taking care of this side of your life here," she gestured around the house. "I'm glad I came early. I really enjoy cooking with you, Félix, and I almost wish I could do it every day."

"..."

Here she leaned her head against mine, her voice light in the way that signaled that she was being honest and trusting. "I don't think I should have let you go," she said, then smiled quietly. "but then you don't learn to respect yourself for the sake of ticking _other people's_ boxes. I think you'll do fine, Félix."

 

I mean, I don't know whether to call it _self-respect._  
Nostalgia for the authentic, maybe. But I did feel validated hearing that from Bernadette, even if it was only for a short while. It's important to me that people notice that I am trying my best, and one day, I will learn to value the fact that I am trying my best _no matter_ what anyone says about it.

I’m still young after all and I have my entire life ahead of me.

Chivers or no Chivers...

... I’ve got plenty of time.

 

**[08/18/17, 15:53]**

Serge is here. Again, I did not _ask_ for Serge ~~(do I ever?)~~ , but he insisted on coming along to help.  
And for once, it's like... _legitimate_ help. We've an outdoors grill that hadn't been maintained for a while; he got it cleaned and set up without complaint and he's out there right now, heating it for when everyone's set to arrive.

"It's been so long since we've had a proper get-together like this, right?" He said casually as he swigged some moloko-plus. ~~(Got him started early.)~~ "Who other than my favourite Chivers to host it, and who other than me - being the dedicated, devoted, and utterly _fanatical_ griller that I am - to make sure the gathering happens?"

...Is this just the moloko or...

 

**[08/18/17, 16:06]**

The Chivettes are here, too. _All_ of them! They bring bread and salt and chocolate milk.

I must clarify that this dinner isn't starting until _six._  
That's at the earliest, even. What the hell's going on?

 

**[08/18/17, 16:25]**

> **M:** I don't remember having _this_ much help nor extra food when _I_ hosted the dinner, that's for sure.

That wasn't said in a mean way, either. He brought extra charcoal. And I guess the first of the ćevapčići are going on the grill now because the vast majority of us are here and we are hungry. 

> **M:** We were all really looking forward to this, Félix.
> 
> **M:** [ _Patting Félix's shoulder._ ] You've a good friend in all of us.

~~I'm really flattered and also terrified I can't human help~~

 

**[08/18/17, 17:14]**

Writing this quickly. People waiting downstairs.  
Dan was the last to come. But apparently he was in the area before Serge arrived; he drove around the block a few times as soon as it became clear that everyone else was filing in, and then he made his entrance as I was going upstairs to change into Chivers gear proper.  
My bedroom window was open. I heard him say hello to all. I was so fixated on this and choosing a shirt that I didn't hear the clop-clop-clop of his boots heading up the stairs until he opened the bedroom door and slipped inside with me.

"You've got a great thing going here," he smiled as I gaped at him, shirtless and confused. "wanted to see my lucky boy myself before the party began. Shirt?"

"I, uh, I. Yes."

He smiled all hooded-eyed, showing interest without interfering. "You look really good _without_ it, too," he said, then took a step back. "I'll be downstairs, Félix. Can't wait."

Then he started moving out of the doorway for privacy’s sake.  
Unacceptable. Only on _my_ terms. "You _can_ wait, if only to tell me which is the best one," I said, and pulled out like five shirts from the wardrobe.

Dannyboy came over. Looked at the shirts, then at me, the Chivers jacket folded neatly over my arm. The standard Chivers gear is white shirt and red jacket: check. I usually get away with checked: check.  
He picked up a completely _black_ shirt and gave it a once-over. Then came up behind me, leaning down to hold the shirt against my upper body, seeing how it contoured to my bare torso. “I think this tone suits you,” he said.

 

Then he hugged me, the pale of his shirt and my skin colliding.  
He smelled sweet and cool like strawberries, the death of summer.

... Black it is.

 

\-----

 

**[08/19/17, 8:08]**

> **D:** What do you want to do once you're past the _Terminale?_

Context: Approximately three hours ago. Early-morning drive through the woods, the Chivers piled in Dan's truck, easing off on the moloko from the night before.  
The Chivettes are back at the house, sleeping it off separately. Despite August a biting chill is in the air. 

> **M:** Haven't thought about it yet, but the future's wide open to us. [ _Takes a swig out of a milk bottle._ ] If you accept _platitudes_ as a valid answer.

We probably ought to have slept it off, too.  
We're not very good at the consciously-easing-off thing for _anything_ , which is probably why we're still in this lifestyle. 

> **S:** I'm out of ideas. Can't change what's about to come, all I can do is to stay perfect inside and out as I face the music.
> 
> **F:** I'll drink to that. [ _Clinks milkbottles with Serge_.] Chivers until you die, eh?
> 
> **S:** Thanks, Félix. _Especially_ for last night, that was amazing. And yeah, something like that - I'll be carrying it with me as long as the attitude helps, at least, and I can't think of when it wouldn't. [ _Nudges._ ] Howsabout we set a date five, ten, twenty years in the future where I give you a good whack on the solar plexus for the mystery of listening to Phil Collins?

Context: Only Serge is bothered about the Phil Collins thing, and even then, I'm not sure if he _really_ is. I'll be damned. 

> **D:** Nobody says 'howsabout' anymore.
> 
> **S:** Welp. I forgot. Sorry about that. [ _Leans back._ ] ... Shouldn't we be heading back now?
> 
> **F:** Let's stay a little longer. It's such a lovely morning.

And nobody objected to that. Dan stopped the truck by the forest edge and we all got out, clustered upon a bench faintly soaked with dew. None of us felt the need to say anything more; we simply gazed into the sky rapidly turning near transparent blue, milk in varying flavours helping to wash down the exhaustion of the night before, the smell of wine and grilled food and happy times blown away clean from our clothes by the forest breeze.  
My bottle was empty. I set it down by my feet. The taste of chocolate lingered on the tip of my tongue for a moment, fleeting as childhood, then was gone as quickly as it had come. The longer I sat there the less tired I felt, even though none of us had slept all night. Dan sat next to me, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing against my skin the way they’d done when he hugged me, and I felt as if my body was pulsing with some mysterious energy. It was a strange feeling. With those guys next to me I felt as if I could run a hundred miles nonstop, both _alongside_ and _away from_ them; I wanted to hold onto us as we were now, us superfluous youths (for yes, that is what it means, _us lilyborn chellovecks_ ), and yet as I gazed down mine and Dan’s hands together I knew that it could not - should not - _must_ not stay this way, the red-white tide within me starting to subside.

Maybe we all were destined to feel like that eventually.  
Dan looked back at all of us. He had that fleeting feeling too, from the looks of it, for he broke the silence to suggest: 

> **D:** Let’s take a photo.
> 
> **M:** A photo? For what?
> 
> **D:** _Commemorate_ the occasion. [ _Pulls out his phone and hands it to Max, pulling Félix closer to him._ ] There’s a tree stump ahead, you should be able to get a good angle from there. I know there are _photobooths_ and all in town, but when else will we be able to capture, like - [ _Gestures about him_.] - something as great and grandiose as _us_ in a place such as _this?_
> 
> **M:** [ _Smirking_.] I get you. You gonna frame it for us, Danny?
> 
> **S:** We can’t all fit on this bench. Hang on. [ _Stands on the bench instead_.] Well, I mean - I don’t know about any of you, but I’m on top of the world!
> 
> **D:** Sure I’ll frame it for all of you. Leave our mark. [ _Poses_.] ... Three, two, one-

It came out fine.

 

\-----

 

**[08/21/17, 17:08]**

Full day out with Dan yesterday. We went shopping and stayed out for dinner, taking advantage of the fact that most people just want to _relax_ on a Sunday to shut our phones off and gaze up at the stars. (I will refrain from expanding on the fact that until recently, the Chivers were _not_ part of those people.) So imagine then, my Deborahs, imagine my surprise when I came home to Prisme sitting on my porch, a CD case in his hand, a grim expression on his face and bearing very, very _questionable_ news.

I don’t know whether it’s _bad_ , necessarily. But it is disappointing.  
And to think I wanted to write about what I experienced with Dan, clinking milkbottles and having my eyes complimented. I was 99% sure that his letters were meant for me after that. I was so _happy._

“I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear,” Prisme said the moment I walked up to him, which killed _that_ mood straight away. He handed me the CD and told me to listen to it before he rolled away, bidding urgently all the while that I _give him a chance_ , whatever that meant.

So I put the CD in my new stereo and pressed play.

The summary of it is that Dan’s recruited another Chivers. Not only that, he recruited _Georges’s friend_ , the one who was charged with murder some seven years ago - the one we only caught a glimpse of when Georges was still with us. And yes, it is a full recruitment with no trial period, new name already given and facelift already performed, even though nobody other than Dan had any input in the situation. The recording was a few minutes of him quietly pleading an audience with whoever else was in the Chivers, interspersed with very brief recollections of what his previous life, Georges, and his initial meeting with Dan had been like - and when it was over I played it all over again while staring into the empty morning air.

I am surprised at how not angry I am. What I am, I think, is _sad._  
Flicking back to the previous pages of my diary, it feels as if it was a different Félix writing then, seeing how much of a fuss _he_ made over ultimately irrelevant circumstances. Don’t get me wrong, Georges hasn’t stopped making me wary, but all that angst about the _concept_ of having a fifth Chivers or Chivette just wasn’t necessary. We needed good judgement there, not the mindless fixations of ritual. Neither of which, I must comment, is happening here.

I love that boy, I really do. But he makes such awful decisions that his average fuckup puts my drunken Saturday nights to shame.

...

I need to talk to Chuck. Dan, too. Maybe not even in that order.  
But first, I’m going to take a nap. If the sadness is to be forever let me at least hide away from it for a while.

 

**[08/21/17, 20:49]**

> **F:** I know about Chuck.
> 
> **F:** Apparently he saved you from danger. He didn't seem to feel that it was _his_ place to speak more of it, so you better start talking. 

 

> **D:** Oh.
> 
> **D:** He did. Remember that day we took Georges out, there was a rando hanging around our trucks and I bashed his head against the hood? The loafer like ittyed over to shank me outside of the milkbar that night, and Chuck just. _Happened_ to be around to help me out. [ _Shrug and odd smile_.] You haven't seen him, but the chelloveck like _homebrews_ his own remedies when he gets hurt? - He gave himself a staple job and looks incredible. Also he kind of stabbed himself to protect me and how can I possibly cast someone like that aside, _I'd_ be the relentless asshole if I didn't recognize that sort of bravery.
> 
> **F:** I'm sorry, what. He _stabbed himself._
> 
> **D:** He stabbed himself.
> 
> **F:** Are we experiencing some kind of _blood price inflation_ , here?
> 
> **D:** No, but risking one's life for the sake of another sets somewhat of a high bar. So high I've never seen that before. [ _Clenches fists nervously, or at least appearing so_.] It's not that the usual standards don't apply for him, like facelifts and non-smoking and basic human decency. But Chuck saved my skin. I can't _not_ recognize that.
> 
> **F:** Why do you do this to yourself? 

 

> **D:** I want to be respectable.
> 
> **D:** And liked.
> 
> **D:** [ _Small smile._ ]
> 
> **D:** Being _allowed to live_ , especially however I want...
> 
> **D:** ... is highly validating.

Oh worm

 

\-----

 

**[08/22/17]**

Dear Danny,

I'm sitting on my bed right now. I have your letters fanned out in front of me. I'm not interested in listing off how _many_ I've rescued, nor do I want to wave them in your face in order to force a confession. I simply want you to know that this is where we stand before I begin: you are a duality, as am I, but I am much stronger than you because I know what _you're_ hiding.

Never mind that you don't know what I did to get those letters of yours, and nor that I don't intend to send you this letter when I'm done, either. Unlike you, I know not to throw away sensitive information where anybody can retrieve it, and unlike you, I have chosen to write this letter as a _script_ of sorts. Most of this I will tell you the next time we meet, which should be in a couple of hours. Not that _timekeeping_ is the point of this exercise. Maybe it never was, despite all that time spent assigning my normal life to one half of the day and the Chivers life to the other.

And that is the point, Danny. I am no longer as enthusiastic about doing this because this life is wearing thin on me. I suspect that you feel the same, and because of this, I am making certain demands of you. If you value me as intensely as you appear to do in your letters, however secret they were, I believe you’ll give ear to what I have to say.

I am going to go meet you soon.  
I will be taking you to a steakhouse. Please do not complain that it’s a steakhouses in the _arrondissement_ one over, the kinds we try not to go to, because this is not about enforcing Chivers ideals.  
We will meet Chuck there. I believe that he has something to say to us regarding his conviction for murder, years ago - namely, that he was implicated whilst innocent. Whether true or not, we need a good judgement of character here to avoid a second Georges situation.  
When that’s done, you will tell _everyone_ about Chuck, Chivettes and Chivers both. You will not make a ritual out of it, and you will not make it a socio-political statement, because Chuck has nothing to do with those things.  
You initiated him into the Chivers because you felt him to be worthy. Your opinions are not ours, though I doubt anyone would contest it; if I really think about it, Max, Serge, and I are all here because you had the final word.  
You will do all of this as leader, and I in turn will do my damnedest to corroborate Chuck’s situation, especially if there is good reason to believe in his innocence. I think he’ll do fine.

These are my requests. Now for some additional notes.

Danny, I confess: I am bittersweet that you didn’t tell us earlier. It’s not hard to see why I consider this a near repeat of the Georges situation. I’m not _angry_ about it, please understand.  
You said it yourself, Danny boy. _Chuck saved your life._ In the face of that, our opinion pales somewhat, because as much as we love you we have never saved you from being shanked at the back of a milkbar. God forbid, if anything we would never have wanted such a scenario to play out in our lifetime, but here we are. I’ve been around long enough to observe that throughout the history of Chivers recruitment and honorary membership, _your_ approval was the single factor that was never forfeited, no matter what anyone else thought. There’s always someone who’s better than everyone else you know, whether in terms of personality, looks, or what they can do for you, and when someone like Chuck came along, _you_ were bound to approve him.

I keep highlighting the word _you_ in this letter because I have come to accept that this is _all_ about you. That is, the Chivers, and our subsequent attitudes towards all that you propose. _Being allowed to live, especially however I want, is highly validating,_ you said. I wish everyone else could have heard that, only I know they never will, because you were always very careful not to let on the fact that everything about the Chivers was actually for _your_ sake. Surely it was easier to carry on the illusion so that everyone is happy, whether for true or false reasons - you believe that the moment everyone realizes how self-centered the Chivers is, the gang will fall apart.

But the thing is, Danny.

I don’t actually think that will happen.

...

You wanted validation and we validated you.  
Note the nominative ‘we’, the _subject._ You never denied us our agency, _we_ chose to validate you freely; you drew us in, but it was because we _genuinely_ liked you in individual ways, not because you forcibly compelled us to do what you wanted. We wouldn’t _all_ leave you alone, I think, even if you told us that we were all just part of a massive ego trip.  
We like you too much for that, Danny. You blame us for imprisoning you within Chivers constraints, but those constraints were what you wanted with the game you wished to play, the language you wanted me to alter, the milk you wanted to drink. Should there be a vote on whether Chuck makes it through or not, I am likely to abstain, only because whatever conflict that will arise between the Chivers from said vote just isn’t _my_ problem anymore. My concern is with helping _you_ , as an individual, to express yourself; my affection for you blinded me before, but I have since realized that sometimes, being harsh _is_ helping.

You brought this upon yourself, Danny boy. _You fix it._

I’ll be watching over you every step of the way.

Love,  
Félix

 

\-----

 

**[08/23/17]**

Dear Félix,

There's nothing special to tell _you_ in a book such as this, which was in retrospect one huge letter addressed to Dan alone; kind of makes you nostalgic for the diary format, doesn't it, when you thought you were only _retelling_ your experiences and not learning from them.

You want retelling? You’ll get some.  
He did as you said and told everyone about Chuck, properly. So you did what you said you were going to do, and researched Chuck's case where everyone could see and hear; he's probably never going to shed the label of murderer in his lifetime and you'll always be watching your back around him as long as you want to live, but at least you are assured that the bastard doesn't _intend_ you harm. Chuck complimented you on your appearance and thanked you for your time, and it turned out he was a staunch non-smoker, so this time you won't have to beat anyone half to death no matter how this goes.

Well done you. Now if only you could make yourself care about Chuck or the rest of the Chivers half as much as you care for Dan.

Oh, Félix, sweetie. Baby. _Honey pie._ You've been closer to him in the past fortnight than you ever dreamed you could be, but you can see the storm coming, can't you? More about Dan disappoints or unsettles you than you like to admit out loud.

...

Pep talk, lucky boy: Dan probably _is_ fixable. Maybe not now and not by you - but at some point, and maybe even of his own accord. You are all consumed with boyish nadsat madness and it's likely you'll grow out of it. Don't be too let down if you do it before him.  
As possibilities go, you might not be all that special to Dan. You're projecting affection onto him, at best, and maybe he doesn't _truly_ care about you or the Chivers or anyone when they're invisible to his ego. Again, this may be because he’s young and he’s an asshole, but you better have options handy for when you're both older and mutual friends die and you try valiantly to suggest to him that he should give a shit and he does not. This will unnerve you. If this looks likely, it is best to cut your losses before this can happen. You might have been taught that you are able to teach people like that _how to feel_ and that's not actually possible. Blood from a stone, except that such things as _peer pressure_ and _social justice_ are happy to tell you that if your discourse is eloquent and your intentions pure, you can get that stone to put out, blood-wise.

These are your warnings in case you are burnt.  
And yet, half of your heart still burns for him. You remember the date at the aquarium and you understand what he means when he says he wants _bright_ and _beautiful_ things, because the world is ugly and _you_ don’t want to see it in its hideousness any more than he does. You enabled Dan as much as he enabled you to enable him; despite knowing this, you still _consciously_ enable him, because you cannot imagine a life without Danny boy with all those broken-as-shit garden paths and all. You've the few days left of the summer holiday and the entirety of the _Terminale_ to figure out if you feel this way because you sincerely love him or because you are used to him.

But, you know. So what if it was the latter. You're young. You all are. It's not the end of the world. Félix need not worry about being brave and going forth and making mistakes, because Félix is watching over him. He’ll get there eventually.

You can always start again.

Love,  
Félix.

 

\-----

 

**[08/24/17]**

Dear diary,

Today I took the glossary of my Chivers slang and sealed it shut with a length of twine. I then took out the stepladder from the garage and placed the glossary on the highest shelf I have, alongside the oldest of my academic achievements and a dusty photo of the child Félix - the one who delighted in the contrast of nature and artifice, the one who knew to _reach out_ and _grab_ for what he wanted, whether a kind human hand or a showroom mannequin's.

Félix is still as he used to be. He might have grown older, sure. He might have tried his hand at artifice and not liked it, but it was because he was working away at someone _else's_ world. Félix knows his worth better now, but there is very little pleasure in looking at his argot now, knowing it was twenty times too good for the sorry pittance he got for it.

I think I will let them go.  
Goodbye, beloved, broken words of the past. You taught me so much.  
There will come a day when you will illustrate my life better than this diary or fading memories ever will, but for now, you are free.

May whatever's up there grant me the same.

Love,  
Félix.

 

\-----

 

**[08/25/17]**

Dear Danny,

Thank you for not being mad with me.  
I know I am harsh and difficult. Maybe you wouldn't put it like that, but I feel that I am, in part due to my belief that sometimes your behaviour is worrying. Hopefully soon this will no longer be the case, either because you will change or I will.  
Remember your Félix as your lucky boy for always, even if you do change. Remember him the way he was earlier tonight, having abandoned everyone else to stretch out on the dewdropped lawn with you, gazing up at the milky stars above. Remember him as he curled next to you, your jacket on top of the one he was already wearing, because it’s just a _nice image_ from a _nice time_ together. Nothing deep or thought-provoking about it. It was something _real_ amidst falsehoods.  
And speaking of falsehoods: his real name is _Sebastian_. You already know this, and granted you were half asleep when he insisted you call him by his real name - but still, I’d like it if you could remember.

Perhaps in time you’ll allow the favour to be returned.  
Vincent. Your real name is _Vincent._ I will treasure it, I promise.

Love,  
Sebastian / Félix

 

\-----

 

**[08/26/17]**

Chère Maman, thank you for the note. Lovely hearing from you.  
Chère Maman, thank you for the ingredients I asked for.  
Chère Maman, thank you for helping me shape the cake. You didn't have to, but you did, and once I put on the icing and decorate it I think it'll come out beautifully. I couldn't have done it without you.

Chère Maman, I've been doing a lot of thinking recently. I am brilliant, and scintillating, and full of charm, and I live a vibrant existence, and yet none of this changes the fact that I have not been a good son recently. There is no getting around that. Looking through my old writings, it strikes me that I’ve only written about you in terms of your _absence_ or your _sadness_ ; I thought you were tired of me, Mama, that you thought of me as a disappointment to stay away from at every possible opportunity. That was unfair of me, and it was not true.

I never made efforts to notice when you were there, that was all.  
You were _always_ there. I _chose_ to look up only during the times you were briefly absent and _chose_ to take it as an attack against me.

And that wasn’t your fault, it was mine.

…

Chère Maman, thank you for listening to me as I said all this.  
Chère Maman, thank you for wiping away my tears. For talking to me about Vincent, my future, everything. So many of my problems could have been solved if I’d used my words to talk about it in advance. I regret not realizing this sooner, leaving aside all platitudes about how _now is better than never._  
Chère Maman, thank you for being there. I love you. I really do.

Love,  
Sebastian ~~/ Félix~~

 

\-----

 

**[08/26/17]**

Dear diary,

I took yet another initiative today.  
Chuck is recovering nicely from his facelift. His home feels impoverished and I have no idea how he managed to afford the surgery, but maybe he's impoverished _because_ he gave his all to be a Chivers own. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen that sentiment; why, we've _all_ been part of it at some point, definitely for the Chivers and myself for Dan. Although I suspect shan't ever feel comfortable around Chuck, for him my wariness becomes part pity.

He enjoyed my soup greatly, and asked me if I could bring some to the meet-up on the 29th, the one Odette's family owns in the forest. "Sure thing," I said, and felt like crying as I patted his back. "I'll be there, Chuck my boy, with soup and roasted eggs and my amazing stereo and all. Teach you _all_ about what it's like to be a Chivers, yes sir."

And for the sake of records: _Blaise._ His real name is Blaise. We all know this because we researched his records, but it's like a veil descends over our eyes when we speak of the Chuck he currently is and not his past self. Nevertheless, I record it here; although being-Blaise is something I have no experience in, I know too well what it feels like to have your self eroded away for the sake of appearances.

I only pray he understands what he signed up for.

Love,  
Félix

 

\-----

 

**[08/28/17]**  
  
Dearest brothers of mine,  
  
You know, I've put in a lot of thought into the social structure we exist in, and seeing Serge try to defend Dan's honour with a butter knife it just occurs to me that we're here because we were all living lives that we didn't want. And you _still_ don't want to live like that. If I up and told you all to _go back to how it used to be_ , I've no doubt that you'd all tell me to fuck off. But what would you have to say if I tell you that _this_ isn't how I want to live, either? Should I take your advice on how to get there, when we've established that you wouldn't follow mine?  
  
...  
  
Look, I think I have made this clear: _I like you all very much as people._ Even Serge, who I have felt increasingly at peace with - knowing that we were just _dreamchasing_ after all, nothing to build resentment over. (Although I sense that he finds this disturbing.) But I think the Chivers have become more of an _educational exercise_ for me than a lifestyle; I'm moving on, emotionally or otherwise, and I'm going to keep fighting for someone I actually love and for the life I actually want, whether I find my niche or carve out my own. Some day I will tell you all of this in person, and who knows? I might have _converts_ by that point.  
  
But make no mistake. I am no Dan, either in the capacity of leader or the desire for validation. If nobody wants to be out of the lifestyle I shall leave _on my own_ , and if I can't help Dan, I will concede defeat and return him to you within 30 days with all original packaging intact. That's not _giving up_. That's taking care of yourself, knowing the kind of life you want, the exact same zeal which drove us all to become Chivers before it died out and left us stagnant.  
Well, I am awake now. Come and cuddle me already, Danny boy; pass me the chocolate milk, my darling, come gaze with me at this cityscape. Only when you are alone and smiling under the nighttime dark are you authentic to me, and if only we had more time -  
  
...  
  
\- I would like to hope that _someday_ , you will look at me without red and white swirling in your vision, sweet summer strawberries filtering out the decaying void gaping ahead of us. As ugly as the things that I dug out of your trash were, seeing them laid out clearly was how I found the gems that lay dormant in your heart; wouldn’t it be nice, _Vincent,_ to not have to hide? Wouldn’t it be nice to talk about them, to know that you don’t have to continue with this _farce_ any longer?  
  
Wouldn't that be grand?  
  
Love,  
Félix.

 

\-----

 

**[08/28/17]**

Dear ~~Danny~~ Vincent,

I'm going to do it. After the cabin meet-up, I will do it.  
I will take you home with me, and come clean to you about the letters. I will tell you about the beauty I saw in them, the love melded in your words that you continuously deny by throwing them away to rot. I want to tell you that your messages made it to me anyway, and that I heard your cries for help; I wish to offer you my hand and help you out of the rot you've dug yourself into.

I would like to be yours. Not your _Félix._ Not your categorical _lucky boy,_ but simply _yours._  
Oh, Danny boy, it's _me_ who's calling. Please hear me out. Please take my hand. There is no need to be afraid, I promise it to you.

Tomorrow. I am readying myself.

_Tomorrow._

Love,  
Sebastian.

 

\-----

 

**[29/08/17]**

> _Weren't you there when the carousel burnt down?_   
> _The fire and confusion, the smoke and the sound,_   
> _I swear you were there when the carousel burnt down,_   
> _We were all around..._

_Images_ blur before my eyes as I think of the meet-up gone wrong, everything from the crackling of the bonfire to Dan's limp body slumping against the bench to my stereo, stuck on that _one_ Todd Rundgren song, tipping over the table in our frenzy to get out of there and smashing into a dozen pieces. I will never get that back, but as I lie here under starry night, I am numb to this fact as I am to the images short-circuiting my brain to the blood dripping down my stomach to almost everything about me and him and us and I don’t really know who to stick in any of those categories so I can only make do. _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._

Why am I bleeding from my stomach? It’s them staples. The ones Chuck put in me.  
The lack of them, rather, if you’re being pedantic. 

> _The rings charred and tarnished all over the ground,_   
> _And our heads hung down_   
> _And we all left town_   
> _The next day..._

Georges was not only alive, but came back with a full chainsaw in tow. _I've been thinking about you lot, and actually, you're losers_ , he shouted; if he weren’t such an asshole I could have drunk to that sentiment. But the chainsaw had no power in the first place; whatever he was trying to do, he failed miserably at it.  
Chuck countered with a rifle he’d dug up from somewhere. He was vastly more successful.

He just didn’t hit _Georges_ , was all.

 

 

Yes, it’s all coming back to me.

Oh it’s all coming back.

Oh.

 

_Images_ once again, blurred, covering a longer period of time than I thought.  
The smoke. The flash. Milkbottles tipping everywhere. Odette screaming. Dan going down like a sandgrouse, immediately limp as he fell where he stood. White-hot searing pain behind my eyes as I forced my staple-covered abdomen into positions it didn’t want to be in, hurtling past trees and through a doorway as we called the police. And _still_ that fucking stereo, _still_ stuck on that fucking song, tipped over the edge as Chuck and Georges made a run for it.  
The police did catch them afterwards. We hear they surrendered peacefully, though no more, and we shan’t hear more if we have any say in it. We were too busy trying to staunch Dan’s wound and hoping to God that we were not too late.

I tell you what, though; he’s not dead. Never was going to die, if I had any say in it.  
I _am_ Dan’s lucky boy, remember? 

> _The children all cried when the carousel burnt down,_   
> _The old ladies sighed as the carousel burnt down,_   
> _The rest of us lied as the carousel burnt down,_   
> _And the flames did fly..._

Fucking Chuck. Honestly, fuck the entire pair of them.

The staples. Yes. Maybe I should have explained that first.  
_Concentrate,_ Félix. You’re losing yourself. Chuck was brandishing guns the moment he set foot in hallowed ground; the first was a _staple gun_ , however, so that the Chivers could have his own staple job along the sides of his forehead replicated. He had it for no other reason than Dan thinking that it was the greatest thing ever. That sat badly with me, so I wasn’t going to get a staple job done at all - but instead of confining my feelings to letters that’ll never be sent, I was increasingly able to _look around_ and confirm that that I could no longer identify with most of the people I was with, and that sat with me even worse. I was nauseous before Georges even came around, though I was trying to blame the milk for it.

Serge’s antics. Very nice; what are they _good_ for?  
All those eggs I bought for us to roast. They’d have been better fried.  
And Danny - sweet Danny, Danny boy, leering at the staple gun, gazing at the pale white expanse of his and everyone else’s skin, doubtless thinking of the _potential_ he could ease us into.

Oh Dan, how much more blood must paint your canvas before you’re satisfied? 

> _The pipes steamed and shrieked out a blazing goodbye,_   
> _As the boiler died_   
> _And they melted down_   
> _The midway..._

So I whispered to Chuck halfway:

 

“ _Mec._ ”

 

“I’m feeling _kind of sick_.”

 

“You got a cure for that, rookie boy?”

 

 

“I know just the cure,” Dan whispered in my ear, squeezing my hand before he _fondled_ down my stomach the way he did once. “Chuck, why don’t you make it two.”

Given that, it was _very_ inconsiderate of him to get shot before his staple job was done. But, well. Never mind.

That’s all finished now. 

 

> _And we all left town the next day..._  
>  _And we all left town the next day..._

 

~~(Hnngh.)~~

 

It’s just the wind, Danny. Calm down. Calm down, Danny boy.

They can’t get us in here.

...

I rode with him in the ambulance. _Just a graze,_ they said, they stitched his side up real quick at the hospital. Serge and Bernadette delivered witness reports as far as I know; the rest scarpered for vaguely understandable reasons, which didn’t surprise me but came off as exceedingly disloyal to Dan. “You were right, Félix,” he blurted out on our way back home, long after the skies had darkened and our phones had burnt out of battery. “I brought this on myself. It ought to have been us four and the Chivettes all along. Fucking Georges,” he spat on the ground and it came out faintly red; he’d been biting the inside of his cheek. “and fucking Chuck, too. _Ow._ Honest to God, _useless_ the whole lot of them. This is what I get for my endorsement? A guy can’t even do a _decent thing_ for his fellow brother without being fucking shot in the back now?”

My house was closest to the hospital. I pulled up to darkened windows and opened the passenger side door, patting down the dressing wrapped around his stomach before offering my hand. “Not when _I’m_ helping out my brother, not when I can help it,” I said as I pulled him out. “come rest. You want anything to eat, Danny?”

He laughed shakily. “Should, but won’t. It hurts to move for God’s sake,” then, as we got past the front door: “I’ve an _amazing_ friend in you at least, Félix. Choosing you was the only good choice I made. God fucking damn it, I nearly got blood all over your car seat, _Jesus Christ_ Félix my boy will you ever forgive me?”

Dan was babbling by this point. Stiff all over, with bandages wrapped in mummy layers around his waist. It’s not every day you survive a near rifle shot, yes? - I just wanted to keep him safe until the pain and shock had died down, and I told him as much, but he would just not _shut up_ about the rest of the Chivers even when we were inside. “You’re not like those _other_ guys,” he eventually exclaimed, horizontal on my sofa with his smooth pale belly showing, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste salt between my teeth because that was the most cliche and disappointing thing I could have heard from someone I so admired. “you’re a wonder, Félix. Thank you so much. I owe you so many thanks and apologies I don’t know where to start, though God knows I can only try.”

There was a parable Schopenhauer wrote once, that neurotic German, about the nature of human relationships. Bunch of porcupines try to huddle together for warmth, but can’t, because their spines are poking away at each other. Unable to get too close but unable to bear the thought of pulling away, they settle into an uneasy truce of distance, forever watchful that no one comes too near nor they don’t venture too close to another - and all for their own sake.  
I identified with it quite a lot when I first heard it. But even then, I remember taking it as Schopenhauer’s theory of why Schopenhauer’s _own_ relations with human beings were so shit. That was many years ago.

Then Dan got shot and I realized it was just a general theory of assholes.  
Everyone’s a buddy to each other until it becomes inconvenient, at which point they run for hills to avoid what’s prickling behind them. Everyone’s cold to each other until they need something from another or are demonstrated an exceptional kindness, at which point they’re hanging onto every word and gesture. Through the course of this summer holiday I have ached over one who does not live up to my pedestal, and yet now that he was here with me - powerless, soft, his kindness at my mercy - I felt but the basest of contempt for the both of us, him for being _unprincipled_ and me for feeling this way towards someone who just barely survived death.

_My goodness,_ I thought. _I am an asshole. A magnet for them._  
_My goodness,_ I thought, _if he’s an asshole and so am I, then_

_we really_

_**do** deserve each other._

 

Dan I’ve got something important to tell you.  
Anything, Félix.  
Danny. Danny boy. Dan. Vincent.  
What the fuck, Félix.

You see. Fucking two-faced bastard. I’d have had him for myself yet.

~~(I’m getting faint)~~

 

 

~~(static in left ear)~~

 

 

~~(vomit. fifth time tonight. clear stomach acid trailing sticky from lips)~~

I swear I was going to give him space. He was in pain. It’d have been incorrect to just drop the news and walk away like it was none of my business.  
But something told me that this was the _best_ time to tell him, when he had good as admitted his feelings for me and was reliant on me to help him around. As far as I knew, the Chivers were over and would stay that way even _after_ Dan recovered; out of all the interpersonal _faux pas_ you could come back from, calling every member of your gang _useless_ save for one isn’t one of them. I’d have wanted to do it properly, showing him the actual letters I dug out, but

Vincent I read your letters.  
What?  
Your letters. You threw them out. They made it to me anyway.

Reached out and stroked the side of his face.

_Save me not scold me, my darling, save my soul, may God help us both._ Remember? Oh, Danny boy. You ought to have _said._  
Then he opened his mouth like he was going to interrupt and I had such a sudden and h o r r i b l e feeling that he was going to call me a degenerate so I was like: I know you probably think it’s creepy as shit, Danny boy, and I realize that this might not have been the best time to tell you. But I like to think that I am a _friend_ to you and not some other exploitative stalkerish asshole and a friend of yours _shouldn’t_ withhold this stuff from you, like _come on,_ you know that I would never have-  
Félix. _Jesus._ Can you let me talk for a second.

Okay.  
How did you find out I was writing letters in the first place?  
Remember that night you came to my house and threw up everywhere?  
I prefer _not_ to, but now I do. What about it?

I got up. Went upstairs. Fetched the plastic bag of letters and fished out that first envelope he gave me, now read through so many times that it was the consistency of tissue paper, and handed it over.

You told me to throw this away. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.  
...  
Couldn’t bear to lose them. You just write so _beautifully_ , Dan, in a way I never saw before in the Chivers. I understand if you didn’t mean them for me, or if you don’t want to see me because of what I did - but I want you to know I’ve fallen quite in love with you, having seen what you’re capable of.

 

Dan reached out and took the plastic bag before looking inside. He had no expression on his face. I held my breath, waiting to be chastised.  
And I _was,_ but not how I expected. Slowly a curious change came about his eyes - Dan’s eyes are already on the dark side of brown, but to me the pupils seemed darker to me than ever before, so dark that they took over the expanse of his irises entirely. No joy nor sadness, no disgust nor delight, nothing but pure dark on dark. I wanted to look away but I felt suckered in. Dan might have been readying himself for a punch for all I knew, but I was so _viscerally involved_ in that gaze of his that I leaned _forwards,_ way past his personal space, staring heavy-breathed against his cheek like I couldn’t _wait_ to see what he decided to do.  
He punished my impudence with a kiss. I questioned it for two seconds.

Then my arms wrapped around his shoulders and there were no questions any more.

 

 

I thought you’d beat me half to death, Danny boy.  
What do you take me for, Félix? You forgot what I’m like with _dedication?_

Yes, it makes you do unwise things.

 

 

~~(i don’t know how long i can keep this up. jesus)~~

 

 

we were too injured to fuck. let me clarify that at least. at some point the chivers jackets dropped to the ground and we were _both_ horizontal on the sofa, his head pressed flush against one arm and mine on the other, legs tangled as we groaned and tugged ineffectually at our clothes and occasionally raised our heads to meet lips against lips. o it was heaven my brothers. dan still had full strength codeine coursing in his veins and i was starting to feel a whole godly sick and woozy so neither of us were really in a shape to do much; as dedicated as dan felt me to be, there was no transcending the _biological_ need to rest and heal up before we did anything special. so we just melted against each other and hoped for the best, summer dying around us, not bothering to get food or turn the lights on as stars speckled the sky and a moist chill hung in the air.  
we must have been there for hours. dan began wincing so i swung my legs away, my limbs feeling swollen and heavy like lead. later i would realize that his painkiller was wearing off, and that in the rush to get his wound treated, we had completely overseen the part where i had a dozen staples pinned in my stomach - and that in the absence of aftercare and all that panic earlier in the day, my body was rejecting the scraps of metal, skin and blood starting to rot from inside out and sending psychedelic flashes behind my eyes.

félix are you all right.  
dan. danny boy. dan i feel sick.  
i’ll fetch you a bowl or something.  
no. nononononono. stay. dan why’s the ceiling vibrating. what are those colours flashing against it. wh  
félix what are you on about?  
what are _colours_ danny. _why did you steal them from me?_ what is green... yellow... why does it.. . . . wh y ... .

dan got up and stumbled to the kitchen. heard the tap flush.  
he came back with a glass of water and pushed it between my teeth, making it clink rapidly from the twitches in my jaw. the ringing in my ears filled my head and i fancied that the veins standing out in my arms were the deepest, emptiest blue, as blue as aquarium darkness.

you’re just tired, félix. you’re tired. what you need is a night’s sleep.

_a night’s sleep_ , he says. sure _he’d_ sleep, he got prescribed enough codeine to make him sleep _forever_ if he wanted. for that blithe comment i looked at him dead in the eye and tossed my cookies, right there on the floor.  
he flinched back once, cursing, then again, holding his belly. the bowl he’d intended to fetch rolled out of the cupboard and shattered by his feet.

what the hell do you think you’re doing? are you high?  
danny i think. i think the staples. it feels so cold down there. actually all of me’s cold, like i’m standing in the middle of a nightmare i can’t get out of, it’s scary. even when i’m talking like this ~~(pause to retch again)~~ i can’t concentrate because there’s something around me trying to suck every last drop of me clean like milkshake off a glass, but i really know that i’m not dreaming. my eyes are open and the pain is real and i’m here, that’s why it’s so scary.  
félix, i’m going home. i can’t get along with you.  
not when you’re been shot you won’t. can i ask you to look, danny. just take a peek. am i bleeding or what?

dan seemed unsure, backing further away into the kitchen as if he thought i was going to hurt him. i followed, rolling my shirt up, and he glanced up at me like he couldn’t believe i was forcing him to do this.  
take a look danny. take a look at what he did to me, what i did for you. tell me if this is what you wanted.

he took a look. as he did, the first silver staple lodged itself out of my skin with a faint _zzipp_ and fell onto the floor, bringing with it a trickle of blood down my belly and fast soaking my underwear, and then

 

and then

 

and then he started screaming and screaming.

i smashed the water glass on the floor, and then he screamed even more for variety’s sake as the glass flew apart.  
look at what i’m giving you, danny boy. my love. my own. i’ll bleed to keep you.  
stop it! _stop it, félix!_ fucking _stop_ it, you’re going _crazy_ , don’t you understand?  
dan i’m so scared i almost want to die. i want you to kill me. yes i really want you to kill me, i’m terrified just standing around. this is what you meant, wasn’t it? that night you were in the aquarium, you saw where we all go in the end, where our once-bright colours and potential and lives fade away for good. this isn’t new to you, danny boy, stop pretending like it is. ~~(more staples popped out.)~~ danny, you can’t hide from it forever, the chivers can’t protect you forever. when you set us all those rules and told us to do the things you liked, you were actually trying to take _charge_ of that final place, like it was going to hurt less if you _made_ it so that you knew what you were in for. i admire that, except that we _aren’t_ your pawns and we’ve all got to face the darkness at some point or be swallowed by it, danny, that darkness is in the way, you have to kill it if you want to escape, if you don’t kill you’ll be killed. danny, where are you, you helped do this to me, come kill the darkness with me, danny, i can’t see anything, danny, i can’t see a thing.

sobbing and out of options, dan struck me around the face.  
i reeled against the counter as he tried to stumble out of the kitchen. his wound hampered him so that he limped with every step. i looked around in a panic; my eyes fell upon the piece of bread that I had bought a month ago from that horrible _boulangerie_ , now fossilized into something resembling concrete or oolitic limestone and slanted on one tip where mama had tried to grate it for breadcrumbs and failed. all the other produce upon the counters consisted of things I’d bought for the meet-up - all those eggs, marshmallows and chocolate and even more milk in their shiny white bottles - and i realized with sinking finality that _nothing i had ever done for dan was enough_. there were _moments_ of pleasure and satisfaction with me, yes, but never long enough to _keep_ him that way; i never had a chance, the entire _world_ hadn’t been enough to keep dan sated, and only at my lowest was i being forced to accept this.

i couldn’t have that. so I shanked him with the baguette and he went down, fresh blood spurting from where i had punctured his bandages, choking on blood and spit as he flailed crimson-speckled arcs on his side upon my kitchen floor.  
the fresh wind greeted me as i threw open the back door, a mere five steps from the kitchen, and heaved myself out onto the damp lawn where i continue to lie as of now; fresh vomit rose in my throat and in an attempt to force it down i turned my head and sank my teeth into bitter grass. dirt and plants and a hunk of soft licheny matter crumbled in my mouth and my eyes rolled back in my head, the night dew on the grass already cooling my body, the poisonous fever in my veins draining slowly into the dirt like i had wanted.

 

 

_the real world gets to you_ , i wrote once. it got me all right, mossflowers taking root around my tongue and cascading slowly down the cavity of my throat, sealing up my words in exchange for leaving dan’s own intact; neither of us are in the shape to destroy the letters i dug up, they will survive no matter what happens to us, and for words that were as beautiful as dan’s it is well deserved.  
full stars, no moon. i turned around and rolled onto my back, fumbling against my stomach. my hand tightened and came away with a staple grasped between my index and thumb; holding that thin sliver up to the sky, that staple with the blood staining its edge looked remarkably like the thinnest possible crescent that could be seen with the naked eye. so small was the image and yet so humbled i was, knowing something good had come out of my injury after all.

that is how i remain lying here. 

 

> _And we all left town the next day..._

 

somewhere behind the fence a truck roars into life, then fades away.  
tomorrow i think i will sell mine. but first of all i’d like to rest, and although i can’t muster up the strength to remove those bloody undergarments of mine i don’t mind the warmth soaking into them by each minute and hour.

i crave pure white on hard red as does my danny.  
dear god, if you are reading this: please let me lie here until the deep midwinter, when the snowflakes will dance down and the warm light reach the darkest recesses of this garden. let the hail stretch over my body, covering where scalpels and staple guns altered me blindly ---

\--- if it is not too late

\---

\--- for me, dear god, to start all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * [08/15/17, 15:47]: ['Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling...'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujr8dQJgQUU)  
> * [08/16/17, 19:19]: I can't rightly call _Steak_ a well-known film, but Dan's line about the last one to Bleue being 'a fan of Phil Collins' is probably one of the better known lines out of everything in it. The real-life Vincent quite enjoys Phil Collins, apparently, so we must make of that what we will.  
>  * [08/18/17, 17:14]: An explanation for why Félix starts wearing black.  
> * [08/19/17, 8:08]: ... And an actual promo shot from the film featuring him in said black shirt!  
> * [08/21/17, 17:08]: Of course a 'Nightcall' reference has to be in a sebinsky fic _somewhere_  
>  * [08/21/17, 20:49]: Dan's talking about [this rando](https://postimg.org/image/p078tfeyt/). We never find out his name in the film or what beef he has against the Chivers (even discounting Serge/Dan's fuckery), but he is commemorated in this mention. This is actually one of the weaker points of narrating a _Steak_ fic in Felix's perspective, I reckon, because film-wise he's not even close to a _central character_ in the same way Blaise, Georges, Dan, or even Serge are; Félix is simply not in the position to observe nor note down fairly solid plot points like this in a way that corresponds perfectly with the film's chronology.  
>  * [08/22/17]: I'm of the opinion that a great attitude shift occurred within the Chivers during the 19 days between Georges's expulsion and the climax of the film. Georges had to earn his stripes as a Chivers and seemed terrible at it; Chuck's a natural, and doesn't appear to have needed whatever hazing the Chivers put Georges through. In the film it's probably Dan's favour and Chuck's natural cham; in _The Mossflower_ Félix is the one who inspires. Matter of perspective.  
>  * [29/08/17]: 'The Night the Carousel Burnt Down' is a song in Todd Rundgren's _Something / Anything_.


	6. File: Epilogue

**The Mossflower - File: Epilogue  
**

**\--------------------------------------**

Dear Danny,

Dan, where are you now? Four years easily since we saw each other last, I think, going on five. After I left the hospital I tried to visit you at your house one more time, but no one answered the door. The next and the last time I was there, it was in a car with my mother, and there was a _For Sale_ sign on the lawn. Leaves were strewn everywhere, a stark contrast to your neighbours who no doubt tutted to see what had become of your place. I gazed at your house in the side mirror for a long time as we drove past, closing my eyes to sear the image in the back of my eyelids before it could leave my sight completely. When I opened my eyes back I tasted iron and rust on my tongue and knew that summer was gone forever from my life, all those sweltering nights filled with cold clinking milkbottles and childish laughter to fade into the depths of memory forevermore.

I remain in touch with Anna, our beloved Bernadette. I regret never asking you what Odette’s real name was, even more so that I never asked her myself. Jonathan sent me a letter once, just after he went off to film school in Nice; he still signed off as Serge and wrote that he was bartending part-time. He told me to say hi to you. I do not know where the rest are, including you; though I confess that I do not think of you as often as I feared, not knowing makes me a little sad.

If you ever get this letter, Dan, get in touch with me. The summers are gone but I am still here. For all I know you continued your studies, or went straight to work; you might be at an office now, labouring somewhere, or maybe you made use of your writing talent like I did with mine, maybe you are married. But I don’t care, even if you’re married, I think I would like to see you just one more time if I can. Just one more time, I want us to trace luminescent creatures against aquarium glass and gaze into the deep blue abyss with sweet milkbottles in hand. I remember you so fondly, shelling peas with firm resolute hands, and I would like to see that again if the accident will.

I never began writing for the sake of letters, and even when I did begin writing them I did not think I would need many. I was wrong about that. This book is my letter to you, Danny, a paper plane gifted to the topsy-turvy breezes of time; I hope it will not go forgotten, that it will find you well.

 

 

Don’t think that I’ve changed, just because I wrote this for you.

I'm still the same as I was back then, really.

**\- F.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to @kavcore / @lisa-franck for the constant inspiration! This story, now completed, is dedicated to you.  
> Thank you very much to everyone who followed this subplot at aksug for the past two months. What a wild ride. This story came to an end as soon as summer did in real time; I couldn't have given it a finish like this without your support. There's an announcement over at @akchotesuggestion to close off this story for good, as well - with that, I bid you all farewell until my next venture, which hopefully shouldn't take long at all! <333
> 
> **\- Kimbk / 01 September 2017**


	7. File: Glossary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Steak_ appears to have taken heavy influences from Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of _A Clockwork Orange_ , and I thought it best to respect that influence for my fic. Alex narrates _A Clockwork Orange_ in what is called [Nadsat slang](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nadsat), and as a homage to that, I chose to have _The Mossflower_ written at least partially through a Nadsat-inspired argot as well.
> 
> Unlike Anthony Burgess, however, I am _not_ a linguist, so I’ve had to improvise. Chivers slang takes some words straight from the Nadsat, and other times, it switches between Russian, English, German, French, Serbian, Latin etc. used either directly or translating homophonously as it goes. I’ve tried to design the argot so that meanings become obvious through context and repetition - knowing those languages should not be _necessary_ to read _The Mossflower_ \- but I thought that a glossary might be helpful nonetheless. As of this update (23rd August 2017) the story is not 100% over (there are still chapters for August forthcoming), but nevertheless I upload the glossary here for reference's sake.

###  **A - E**

**André** : from the French, homophone of ‘ **entrée’**  
**auto:**  French, apocopic form of ‘automobile’, ‘ **car’**  
**baboochka:** from the Russian ‘babushka’ (ба́бушка), ‘ **old woman’ / ‘grandmother’** )  
**bad gnocchi:**  from the Russian ‘odinoki’ (одинокий) → rendered ‘oddy-knocky’ in Nadsat → split into ‘odieux’ and ‘gnocchi’ in French and Italian respectively to create ‘bad gnocchi’ → meaning ‘ **lonesome/solitary’  
** badmuff: from the Russian ‘malchik’ (мальчик) → rendered ‘malchick’ in Nadsat → French ‘mal’ translated to English ‘bad’ and English ‘chick’ translated to colloquial French ‘meuf’ → meaning ‘ **boy’**  
**basvys:**  from the French ‘bas’ and ‘vis’, meaning ‘ **lowlife’**  
**blyad:** Russian (блять) for ‘ **fuck’**  
**cancer:** slang for ‘ **cigarette’**  
**chas:**  Russian (час) for ‘ **hour’  
** chelloveck: Russian (человек) for ‘ **person/man/fellow’**  
**chetiry(th):** from the Russian ‘chetyri’ (четыри), meaning ‘ **four(th)’**  
**creech:**  from the Russian ‘krichat’ (кричать) → rendered in Nadsat, meaning ‘ **to scream/shout’**  
**crossstadt:**  from German ‘Stadt’, meaning ‘ **across town’**  
**debil:**  Russian (дебил) for ‘ **moron’**  
**Deborah:** from the Serbian ‘brate’ (Брате) → under Šatrovački permutation, syllables reverse to make ‘tebra’, which is homophonous with the English ‘Deborah’ and retains the meaning ‘ **brother’.**  
**dejeuner:**  French for ‘ **lunch/dinner’**  
**desolations:**  from the French ‘désolé’, meaning ‘ **sorry’**  
**diswit:** homophone of the French ‘dix-huit’, meaning ‘ **eighteen’**  
**du coin:** French for ‘ **local’**  
**escalier:**  French for ‘ **stairs’**  
**etape:**  from the French ‘étape’, meaning ‘ **stage/phase’**  
**etwally:** from the Russian ‘stariyi’ (старый) → rendered ‘starry’ in Nadsat → translated into the French ‘étoilé’ → meaning ‘ **ancient/old’**

###  **F - J**

**fini:**  French, conjugation of the verb ‘ **to finish’**  
**frooxer:**  from the Russian ‘ruka’ (рука) → rendered ‘rooker’ in Nadsat → ‘rook’ in French is ‘freux’, hence ‘frooxer’ → meaning ‘ **hand’**  
**gammon:** from the French ‘gamin’, meaning ‘ **kid’**  
**gimoff:**  from the French ‘guimauve’, meaning ‘ **marshmallow’**  
**gloopy:** from the Russian ‘glupiyi’ (глупый) → rendered in Nadsat, meaning ‘ **stupid’**  
**greasyborn:**  from the Russian ‘gryazniyi’ (грязный) → rendered ‘grahzny’ in Nadsat → read into the French ‘gras nais’, literally ‘greasy-born’ → meaning ‘ **dirty’**  
**horrorshow** : from the Russian ‘khorosho’ (хорошо) → rendered in Nadsat, meaning ‘ **good/well/excellent’**  
**igra:**  Russian for ‘ **game’**  
**itty:**  from the Russian ‘idti’ (идти) → rendered in Nadsat, meaning ‘ **to go’**  
**jaja:**  German, multiple uses of the affirmation ‘ja’ can mean ‘ **fuck you’**  
**jolly:** from the French ‘joli’, meaning ‘ **pretty’**  
**jour:** French for ‘ **day’**

###  **K - O**

**kot:**  Russian (кот) for ‘ **cat’**  
**leer:**  from the French ‘lire’, meaning ‘ **to read’**  
**lilyborn:**  from the Russian ‘lishniy’ (лишний) → read into the French ‘lis nais’, literally ‘lily-born’ → meaning ‘ **superfluous’**  
**loafer:**  inspired by the French ‘bâtard’, a form of bread as well as meaning ‘ **bastard’**  
**lubrik:**  from the Russian ‘lyudi’ (люди) → rendered ‘lewdies’ in Nadsat → ‘lewd’ in French is ‘lubrique’ → meaning ‘ **people’**  
**luk:**  Russian (лук) for ‘ **onion’**  
**malentendu:**  French for ‘ **misunderstanding’**  
**mason:**  from the French ‘maison’, meaning ‘ **house’**  
**med:**  Russian (мед) for ‘ **honey’**  
**medovik:**  Russian (медовик), a type of honey cake    
**mercy:**  from the French ‘merci’, meaning ‘ **thanks’**  
**mesto** : Russian (место) for ‘ **place’**  
**minuta:**  Russian (минута) for ‘ **minute’**  
**molochai:** see ‘moloko’. Russian for ‘milk’ plus the Russian ‘chai’ (чай), meaning ‘ **milk tea’**  
**moloko:**  Russian (молоко) for ‘ **milk’**  
**molopause:** see ‘moloko’. Russian for ‘milk’ plus the French ‘pause’, meaning ‘ **milk break’**  
**moloshake:** see ‘moloko’. Mixed word for ‘ **milkshake’**  
**mot:** French for ‘ **word’**  
**mwah:**  from the French ‘mois’, meaning ‘ **month’**  
**nagoy:** Russian (нагой) for ‘ **naked’**  
**nase:**  from the Russian ‘nazad’ (назад) → rendered ‘nazz’ in Nadsat → spelling adjusted → meaning ‘ **fool/backwards’**  
**nebenporte:**  from the German ‘neben’ and the French for ‘door’, meaning ‘ **next door’**  
**nebula:**  English borrowing from Latin, meaning ‘ **sky/night’**  
**nougat:** from the Russian ‘noga’ (нога), homophonous with ‘nougat’, meaning ‘ **feet/legs’**  
**nouveau:**  French for ‘ **new’**  
**okno:** Russian (окно) for ‘ **window’**  
**orails:**  from the French ‘oreilles’, meaning ‘ **ears’**  
**owchee:**  from the Serbian ‘oci’ (очи), meaning ‘ **eyes’**

###  **P - T**

**para:**  Russian (пара) for ‘ **pair’**  
**petit-pietro:**  French ‘petit’ means ‘small’ → ‘Pietro’ is an Italian form of ‘Peter’, which furthermore derives from the Greek ‘Petros’ ( _Πετρος_ ) which means ‘stone’ → meaning ‘ **small stone/pebble’**  
**petit-sas:**  from the Russian ‘ptitsa’ (птица), meaning ‘bird’ → Nadsat keeps the spelling of ‘ptitsa(s)’, but adds in a further connotation the word ‘bird’ has in English → homophonous with French ‘petit-sas’ → meaning ‘ **girls/chicks’**  
**plateau:** from the Russian ‘platye’ (платье) → rendered ‘platties’ in Nadsat → read into the French ‘plateau’ → meaning ‘ **dress/clothes’**  
**ponymat:** Russian (понимать) for ‘ **to understand’**  
**porte:**  French for ‘ **door’**  
**postēsum:** from the Latin, ‘ēsum’ is the accusative singular of 'ēsus’ which is the perfect passive participle of ’ ēdo’, 'I eat’ → meaning  **'after eating/having eaten’**  
**rockskin:**  from the Russian ‘podarok’ (подарок) → homophonous with the French ‘peau de roc’, ‘skin of rock’ → meaning ‘ **present/gift’**  
**rot:**  Russian (рот) for ‘ **mouth’  
** sank: from the French ‘cinq’, meaning ‘ **five’  
** scarlet(ed): from the Russian ‘ekhat’ (ехать) → visually similar to the French ‘écarlate’ ('scarlet’)  → meaning ‘ **to drive’**  
**seetoyan:** from the French ‘citoyen’, meaning ‘ **citizen’  
** semechki: Russian (семечки) for ‘ **sunflower seeds’  
** smeck: from the Russian ‘smex’ (смех) → rendered in Nadsat → meaning ‘ **laugh’**  
**smot:**  from the Russian ‘smotret’ (смотреть) → rendered in Nadsat → meaning ‘ **to look’**  
**sodding:** English slang, similar usage to ‘ **fucking’  
** sooka: Russian (сука) for ‘ **bitch’  
** soupsay: from the Russian ‘ukh **o** dit’ (уходить) → rendered ‘ook **a** deet’ in Nadsat  → ’ukh **a** ’ (уха) is a type of fish soup and ‘dit’ is a conjugated form of the French verb ‘dire’, ‘to speak’ → meaning ‘ **to leave’**  
**stimming:** from the German ‘Stimme’, meaning ‘ **voice’  
tet: ** from the French ‘tête‘, meaning ‘ **head’**

###  **U - Z**

**vaysay:** French pronunciation of ‘ **W. C.’**  
**vody:** Russian (воды) for ‘ **water’**  
**vois:**  French, conjugation of the verb ‘ **to see’**  
**vonny:** from the Russian ‘von’ (вонь) → rendered in Nadsat → meaning ‘ **stench/smelly’**  
**waterled:**  from the Russian ‘dorogoy’ (дорогой) → under Verlan permutation, syllables switch to make ‘goydoro’, which is roughly homophonous with the French ‘guide de l’eau’, [an actual publication in France dealing with yearly water supply/demand reports](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.editions-johanet.net%2Fguide-de-eau-2015-2016-o20&t=YjQzODI5M2JkN2JiN2I2ZTY2ZTY4MmQ1YTc1MzIyZThlOTZhZWMxYyxHQktuRVg4QQ%3D%3D&b=t%3Aar2dTDnQbdNiE_Be2hFscQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Fakchotesuggestion.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F163452637067%2Fthe-mossflower-glossary&m=0) → meaning ‘ **precious’**  
**zdat:**  Russian (ждать) for ‘ **to wait (for)’**  
**zen:** from the German ‘zehn’, meaning ‘ **ten’**


End file.
